
\ ! 




*%-^; 



%. 



'V. ^^nkX^-^. 



THE 



SKETCH-BOOK 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent 



** I have no wi(e nor children, ^ood or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other 
3.00*8 lortunes and adventures, and how t bey play their parts, which, metfainks, aro 
diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene." — Burton. 



THE AUTHOR'S REVISED EDITION". 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



NEW YORK 
P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
27 AND sg West 23D Street 



fS 






\^"^ 



jiNTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 

WASHINGTON IRVING, 

111 tbo Plevk's Office of the District Court of the United States fertile Cou^jicrc 
District of New York. 



EXCHANGE 



JUN 12 1944 

Serial Ro----- ' r 
ThUiL 

Copv 




PAGE 

The Author's Account o:' Himself, 13 

Thk Yoyace, IT 

EoscoK, 25 

Thk Wife, 34 

Rip Van ^^ inkle, ......... 44 

English Wkiters on America, ...... 68 

Rural Life in England, ........ ^0 

The Broken Heart, ........ 89 

The Art of Book-making, ........ 96 

A Royal Poet, ......... 105 

The Country Church, 123 

^ The Widow and her Son, . 13C 

^ A Sunday in London, ..,.,.., 14 

The Boar's Head Tavern, EASTCiiEAr, . . , , . 14c 
The Mutability of Litkratur::, . . . , . .158 

^""-^-|kURAL Funerals, ......... 172 

The Inn Kitchen, , . .187 

Thk Spectre Bridegroom, ....... 190 

Westminster Abbey, ......... 210 

Christmas, 224 

^,, The Stage Coach, 23i 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Christmas Evk, • • .■ . 240 

Christmas Dat, .......•*. 255 

The Christmas Dinner, ........ 272 

London Antiques, 290 

Little Britain, ' 298 

Stratford-on-Aton, 317 

Traits of Indian Character, 342 

Philip of Pokaxoket, 356 

John Bull, . 378 

The Pride of the Village, 392 

The Angler, 404 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, . . . , . .410 

L'Envoy, 457 

Appendix, ..,..>,,,,. 461 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITIO:^, 



The following papers, with two exceptions, were written 
in England, and formed but part of an intended series, fur 
which I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could 
mature a plan, however, circumstances compelled me to send 
them piecemeal to the United States, where they were pub- 
lished from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not 
my intention to publish them in England, being conscious 
that much of their contents would be interesting only to 
American readers, and in truth, being deterred by the severity 
with which American productions had been treated by the 
British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared 
in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across 
the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, 
in the London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a 
London bookseller intended to publish them in a collective 
form. I determined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, 
that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence 



6 PKEFACE. 

and revision, I accordingly took the printed numbers which 
I had received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, 
the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received 
friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination, 
informing him that should he be inclined to bring them before 
the public, I had materials enough on hand for a second 
volume. Several days having elapsed without any communi- 
cation from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which 
I construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and 
begged that the numbers I had left with him might be re- 
turned to me. The following was his reply : 

My dear Sir,^ 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind 
intentions towards me, and that I entertain tlie most unfeigned 
respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely 
filled with Avorkpeople at this time, and I have only an office to 
transact business in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I 
should have done myself the pleasure of seeing yon. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your 
present work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the 
nature of it Avhlch would enable me to make those satisfactory 
accounts between us, witliout which I really feel no satisfaction in 
engaging — but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, and 
shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. 
With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

Tills was disheartening, and might have deterred me from 
any further prosecution of the matter, had the question of 
republication in Great Britain rested entirely with me ; but I 
apprehended the appearance of a spurious edition. 1 now 
thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having 



PKEFACE. 7 

been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to 
Edinburgh ; but first I determined to submit my work to 
Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by 
the cordial reception I had experienced from him at Abbots- 
ford a few years, previously, and by the favorable opinion he 
had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly 
sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch Book in a parcel 
by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that 
since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a 
reverse had taken place in my affairs which made the success- 
ful exercise of my pen all-important to me ; I begged him, 
therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to 
him, and, if he thought they would bear European republica- 
tion, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to 
be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's 
address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to his residence 
in the country. By the very first post I received a reply, 
before he had seen my work. 

" I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your letter reached 
Abbotsford. I am now on my ^ay to town, and will converse 
with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your 
views — I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck 
the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and 
efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he had already 
devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about 
to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable 
talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary informa- 



8 PEKFACE. 

tion. The appointment of the editor, for which ample funds 
were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, 
Avith the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This 
situation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly offered 
to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have some- 
what of a political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension 
that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. 
" Yet I risk the question," added he, " because I know no 
man so well qualified for this important task, and perhaps 
because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my 
proposal does not suit, .you need only keep the matter secret, 
and there is no harm done. ' And for my love I pray you 
wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be 
made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing 
Castle-street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, " I am 
just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. It 
is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, 
if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in man- 
aging such a matter, especially at the outset ; but we will 
obviate them as much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, 
which underwent some modifications in the copy sent : 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. 
I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty •, 
but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you 
that warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. 
Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it 
evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I have 
myself." 



PKEFACE. 9 

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly 
unlitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my 
political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of 
my mind. " My whole course of life," I observed, " has been 
desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring 
task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no 
command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch 
the varyings of my minds as I would those of a weather-cock. 
Practice and training may bring me more into rule ; but at 
present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own 
country Indians or a Don Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; 
writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally 
shift my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects 
before me, or whatever rises in my imagination ; and hope to 
write better and more copiously by and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very good- 
for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel 
inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he 
will encourage me to further enterprise ; and it will be some- 
thing like trading with a gipsy for the fruits of his prowlings, 
who may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to 
offer, and at another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my 
declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. He 
then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence ; 
entered into a detail of the various terms upon which arrange- 
ments were made between authors and booksellers, that I 
might take ray choice ; expressing the most encouraging con- 



1 PREFACE. 

fidence of the success of my work, and of previous works 
which I had produced in America. '' I did no more," added 
he, " than open the trenches Avith Constable ; hut I am sure 
if you will take the trouble to write to him, you will find 
him disposed to treat your overtures with every degi-ee of 
attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place 
to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and 
whatever my experience can command is most heartily at 
your command. But I can add little to what I have said 
above, except my earnest recommendation to Constable to 
enter into the negotiation." * 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I 
had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, 
but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and 
let it sink or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that 
effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth 
in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish 
on one's own account ; for the booksellers set their face against 



* I cannot avoid subjoining; in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's 
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our corre- 
spondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had 
sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's 
poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; showing the " nigro- 
mancy" of the American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a 
pint bottle. Scott observe.s : " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in 
Sophia's name for the kind attention which furnished her with the American 
volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her 
acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise 
have learned ; for I had taken special care they should never see any of those 
things during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping 
the firmament with a feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement 
with a sword like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered bus- 
Bar in the 18th dragoons." 



PREFACE. 11 

the circulation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to 
thciTiselves. But they have lost the art of altogether dam- 
ming up the road in such cases between the author and the 
public, which they were once able to do as effectually as 
Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows 
of my Lord Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one 
thing, that you have only to be known to the British public 
to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I 
really was of that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will fmd some 
notice of your works in the tast number : the author is a 
friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in your 
literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of 
very considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately 
connected with my family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker 
is to be next examined and illustrated. Constable was ex- 
tremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for 
your works, but I foresee will be still more so when 



Tour name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



And that will soon be the case. I trust to be 



London about the middle of the month, and promise myself 
great pleasure in onco again shaking you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in 
London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller 
unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which 
a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had 
been called to it by the extracts which had previously appeared 



12 PEEFACE. 

in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken by the 
editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circula- 
tion, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month 
was over, and the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him 
for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious 
than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through 
his favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to 
undertake the future publication of the work which he had 
previously declined. A further edition of the first volume 
was struck off and the second volume was put to press, and 
from that time Murray became my publisher, conducting 
himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, and liberal 
spirit which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation 
of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 
Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that 
I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude 
to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging 
my obligations to him. — But who of his literary contempo- 
raries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not ex- 
perience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 

W. L 

BUNNYSIDE, lS4Sk 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel wa» 
turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so the 
traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into 
BO monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to 
live where he can, not where he would." 

LYLT'S EUPHtTES. 

X WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
-*- strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child 
I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into 
foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the 
frequent alarm of my parents, and the e molum ent of the 
town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range 
of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in 
rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself 
familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I 
knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- 
mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, 
and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting 
their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages, and 
great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 
summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye 
1* 



14 THE SKETCII-EOOK. 

over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to 
find how vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling jDro^gjisiJ;^ strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the reijular exercises 
of the school. IIow wistfully would I wander about the pier- 
heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to 
distant climes — with what longing eyes would I gaze after 
their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the 
ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this 
^iilgue inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to 
make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I 
should have folt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, 
for on no country have the charms of nature been more prod- 
igally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid sil- 
ver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, 
teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, thun- 
dering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with 
spontaneous verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn 
silence to the ocean ; her trackles'3 forests, where vegetation 
puts forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the 
magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, never 
need an American look beyond his own country for the sub- 
lime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpiece of art, 
the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint pecu- 
liarities of ancipHt and local custom. My native country 



THE AL'TIIOR S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 15 

M'as full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the accu- 
mulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history 
of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. 
I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement — 
to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter 
about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to 
escape, in short, from the common-plae3 realities of the present, 
and lose n-iyself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I have 
mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered 
by the shade into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so 
baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particu- 
larly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the 
great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of various 
philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and 
man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, 
must therefore be as superior to a great man of America, as 
a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson ; and in this 
idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative impor- 
tance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers 
among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their 
own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, 
and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 

It has been cither my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, 
and witnessed imany of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot 
say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher ; 
but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers 



16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop 
to another ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, 
sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by 
the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern 
tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port- 
folios fdled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for 
the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over 
the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, 
my heart almost fails mo at finding how my idle humor has 
led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular 
traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal 
disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter, who had 
travelled on the continent, but, following the bent of his vagrant 
inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. 
His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and 
landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint 
St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay 
of Naples ; and had not a single glacier or vo^icarxo in his 
whole collection. 




THE YOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I ■will dcscrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try yon, 
"What you arc protecting, 
And projecting, 
Whafs your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wea'itby lading 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 

rr\ O an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
-*- make is an excellent prep£ij;atiye. The temporary absence 
of Avorldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind 
peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The 
vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a 
blank page in existence. There is no gradual t ransition , by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one coun- 
try blend almost imperc eptibly with those of another. From 
the moment you lose sight of the land you have left all is 
vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched 
at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a 
oonnected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain," at each re. 
move of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can 
trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last still grap- 
ples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. 
It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure an- 
chorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. 
It i nterposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between 
us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and 
uncertainty, rendering distance palpable , and retui'n pi-c- 
carious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the 
h orizon , it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world 
and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened 
another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which 
contained all inost dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might 
occur in it — what changes might take j)lace in me, before I 
should visit it again ! "Who can tell, when he sets forth to 
wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents 
of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may 
ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 
'pr~ I said that at sea all is vacancy ;| I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in r^yeries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medita- 
tion ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the 
air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. 
I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the 
main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the 
tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of 
golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some 



THE VOYAGE. 19 

fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — 
to Avatch the gentle undulatiug. billows, rolling their silver 
volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the 
monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of 
porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus 
slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the rav- 
enous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. 
My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or road 
of the watery world beneath me; of the fmny herds that roam 
its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild 
phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of tha 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of hu- 
man invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over wind 
and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into commun- 
ioii ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into 
the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; 
has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of culti- 
vated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered por- 
tions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have 
thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a 
■distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of 
the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be 
the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; 



20 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some 
of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent 
their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by 
which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck 
had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of 
shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted 
at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew 1 Their strug- 
gle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the 
roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the 
caverns of the deep. Silence, obliv ion, like the waves, have 
closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. 
What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers 
offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has 
the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, 
to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! 
How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into 
dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento 
may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be 
known, is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never 
heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, 
when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look 
wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those 
sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the seren- 
ity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of 
a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every 
one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particu- 
larly struck with a short one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship 



THE VOYAGE. 21 

across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fo"s 
which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to 
see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather 
was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice 
the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a 
constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, Avhich 
are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was 
blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate 
through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 
' a sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon 
her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside 
towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to 
hoist a light. We struck her just amid-ships. The force, 
the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the 
waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. 
As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse 
of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; 
they just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking 
by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the 
wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all 
farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some 
time before we could put the ship about, she was under such 
headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the 
place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for 
several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and lis- 
tened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all 
was silent — we never saw or heard any thing of them more." 
I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea 
was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds over 
head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quiv- 
ered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding dark- 
ness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild 
waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the moun- 
tain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among 
these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained 
her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. • Her yards would 
dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the 
waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to 
overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the 
helm preserved her from the shock. 

/ When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed 
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded 
like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the strain- 
ing and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the 
weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing 
along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it 
seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, 
seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning 
of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, Avith a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is im- 
possible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and 
fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her can- 
vas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling 
waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems to 
lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage. 



TilE VOYAGE. 3>3 

for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to 
get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" land ! " was given from the mast-head. None but those who 
have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng 
of sensations which rush into an American's bosom, when he 
first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of asso- 
ciations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teem- 
ing with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on 
which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tower- 
ing into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As 
we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores Avith a 
telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the 
mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor- 
ing hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating 
brow and restless air. Ilis hands were thrust into his pocli. 
ets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, 
a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in 
deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cheerings and salutaLions interchanged between the shore and 
the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I par- 
ticularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but in- 
teresting demeanor. She was leaiiing forward from among 
the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the 
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed 
disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her 
name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the 
voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. 
When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mat- 
tress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had 
so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only 
breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. 
He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and 
was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so 
wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the 
eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of 
his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a 
whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a 
faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of 
business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to 
meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my 
forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 



EOSCOE. 

In the service of mankind to be 

A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor In heroic aims. 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool is the Athenteum . It is established on a 
liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and 
spacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the 
place. Go there at "what hour you may, you are sure to find 
it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the 
study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my atten- 
tion was attracted to a person just entering the room. He 
was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have 
been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps 
by care. He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a 
head that would have pleased a painter ; and though some 
slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had 
been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of 
a poetic soul. There was something in his whole appearance 
2 



26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling 
race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Eoscoe. 
I drew back with an iji\-okintary feeling of veneration. This, 
then, Avas an author of celebrity ; this was one of those men, 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with 
whose minds I have c ommuned even in the solitudes of 
America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know 
European writers only by their works, Ave cannot conceive 
of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivia l or sordiiJL 
pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in 
the dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations 
like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their 
genius, and surrounded by a haJQ of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, 
mingling among the busy sons of trafBc, at first shocked my 
poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situa- 
tion in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his 
highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how 
Gome minds seem almost to create themselves, springing 
up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary 
but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature 
seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with 
which it M'ould rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; and 
to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance produc- 
tions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and 
though some may perish among the stony places of the 
world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles 
of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root 
even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into 



KOSCOE. 27 

sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a 
place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; 
in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family 
connections, or patronage ; self-prompted, self-sustained, and 
almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle , achieved 
his way to eminence, and, having become one of the orna- 
ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his 
talents and influence to advance and embellish his native 
town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character Avhich has given 
him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particu- 
larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as arc 
his literary merits, he is but one among the many distin. 
guishc3 authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, 
in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleas- 
ures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, 
or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and incon- 
sistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the 
bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to induge in the 
selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, 
but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the 
accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in 
no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone 
forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has 
planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the 
pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, 
where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and 



28 • THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowl- 
edge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on -which man- 
kind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty 
and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excel- 
lence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and 
imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but 
which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this 
world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature 
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the 
coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for 
their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and 
wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled patronage, but on 
hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly 
interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can 
give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own 
Lorenzo De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his 
eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the 
history of his life with the history of his native town, and 
has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his 
virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive traces 
of his fcwtsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found 
the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffick ; 
he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the garden 
of literature. By his own example and constant exertions 
he has effected that union of commerce and the intellectual 
pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest 



EOSCOE. 29 

writings : * and has practically proved how beautifully they 
may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The 
noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which 
reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an 
impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and 
have all been efiectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when 
■sve consider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude 
of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance 
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an 
ambition of mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has 
effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Tioscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of" 
his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
above the reach of i^ity. Those who live only for the world, 
and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adver- 
sity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the 
reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the 
resources of his own mind ; to the suj^erior society of his 
own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to 
neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less Avorthy asso- 
ciates. He is independent of the world around him. He 
lives with antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the 
sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, 
in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude 
of such a mmd is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then 
visited by those elevated meditations Avhich are the proper 

* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



30 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, 
in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. lioscoe. I was 
riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liver- 
pool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some orna- 
mented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a 
spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It 
was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and 
the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from 
it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a 
soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey 
■ was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an 
expanse of green meadow-laud ; while the Welsh mountains, 
blended with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the 
horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and 
literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. 
I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the 
soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — 
the library was gone. Two or three ill-flivored beings were 
loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into 
retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic foun- 
tain, that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, 
but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad 
brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 



EOSCOE. 31 

• 

it had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. The good people of the vicinity 
thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel 
that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of 
ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical 
in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies 
rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the 
possession of weapons which they could not wield. We 
might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating 
with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated 
margin of an obsolete author ; of the air of intense, but 
baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser at- 
tempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roseoe's mis- 
fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 
mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched 
upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circum- 
stance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar 
only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions 
of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the seasons 
of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around 
us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow 
cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid 
civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered 
countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true 
friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not Avish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have been 
sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the 



32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

circumstance, which it Avould be difficult to combat witn 
others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly 
appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of 
cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by one 
of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of public 
sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of 
genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes 
mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities 
lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the common 
materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. 
Some of Mr. Tioscoe's tonwsmon may regard him merely as a 
man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged 
like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, per- 
haps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. 
Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, 
which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause 
him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not 
know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. 
But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of 
it as the residence of Roscoe. — ^The intelligent traveller who 
fisits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the 
fiterary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the 
distant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexan- 
dria, towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the 
whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from 
the writer's heart. 



KOSCOE. So 



TO MY BOOKS. 



As one wlio, destined from liis friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their eonverso and enjoy their smile. 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. 
And kindred spirits meet to part no morj. 



THE WIFE, 



The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceaVd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house, 
What a delicious breath marriage seeds forth 
The violet bed's not sweeter. 



MiDDLETON. ■ , 1 - 



T HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitud e with 
-*- which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem, to call forth all the 
energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and eleva- 
tion to their character, that at times it approaches to sublim- 
ity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and 
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, 
and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the pros- 
perous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the 
comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and 
abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of ad- 
versity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when 
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 



THE WIFE. 35 

with its caressing tendrils , and bind up its shattered boughs ; 
so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who 
is the mere dependent and ornamen,t of man in his happier 
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- 
den calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his 
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding 
up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection, " I 
can wish you no better lot," said he, with eiithusiasm, " thaa 
to have a wife and children. If you are pi'osperous, there 
they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they 
are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a 
married man filling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve 
his situation in the world than a single one ; partly because 
he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the 
helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsist- 
ence ; but chiefly because his spirits are sootlied and relieved 
by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by 
finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, 
yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he 
is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste 
and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and 
his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want 
of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and ho 



36 THE SKKTCII-BOOK. 

delighted in the anticipa^fo n of indulging her in every elegant 
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies 
that spread a kind of "witchery about the sex, — " Her life," 
said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difierence in their characters produced an har- 
monious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat 
serious cast ; she Avas all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her 
in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the de- 
light ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still 
turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. . 
When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely 
with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with 
which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of 
triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on 
his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a 
couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- 
^ited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
■^^'^Xt was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not 
been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden 
disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced 
almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to him- 
self, and went about with a haggard countenance^, and a break- 
ing heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what 
rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping 
up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring 
himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, 
with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. 
She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to 



THE WIFE. Si 

he. deceived l)y his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfLdncss. 
She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments 
to win liim back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow 
deeper into his soul. The more lie saw cause to love her, 
the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make 
her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will 
vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those 
lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow; 
and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, 
will be Aveighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of 
the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him 
through I inquired, " Does your wife know all this 1 " — At 
the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's 
sake ! " cried he, " if you have any j^ity on me, don't mention 
my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to 
madness ! " 

'' " And A\'hy not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or 
later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if im- 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften 
the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of 
the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also 
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an 
imreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon 
perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; 
and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued 
and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are 

concealed from it." 

2* 



do THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul 
to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar I 
that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleas- 
ures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and ob- 
scurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her doun from the 
sphere in which she might have continued to move in coii- 
stant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of 
every heart ! — How can she bear poverty 1 she has been 
brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she 
bear neglect 1 she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will 
bveak her heart — it will break her heart ! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once 
to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the 
alteration of your circumstances. You must change your 

style of living nay," observing a pang to pass across his 

countenance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have 
never placed your happiness in outward show— you have yet 
friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you 
for being Jc?s splendidly lodged : and surely it does not re- 
quire a palace to be happy with Mary " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in 
a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the 
dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her ! " 
cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 



THE WIFE. 39 

" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and 
grasping him -warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be 
the same -with yon. Ay, more : it ^vill be a source of pride 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies 
and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to 
prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true 
Avoman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in 
the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and 
beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a 
ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through 
the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the ex- 
cited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal 
with ; and following up the impression I had made, I finished 
by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to 
his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the for- 
titude of one whose life has been a round of pleasures 1 Her 
gay spirits might revolt at the darlc downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to 
the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Be- 
sides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many gall- 
ing mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — 
In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without 
trepidation. lie had made the disclosure. 
" And how did she bear it 1 " 
" Like an ansel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor 
girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must un- 
dergo. Sho has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she 
has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She 
feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed 
conveniencies nor elegancies. When we come practically to 
experience its sordid cares, its j^'iltry wants, its petty humil- 
iations — then will be tlie real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest 
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying; 
but then it is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you 
otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. 
It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined 
man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse 
— the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an 
end. Have the coura;^e to appear poor and you disarm pov- 
erty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie per- 
fectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to 
his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 
fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment 
required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the 
splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting 
his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with 
the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their 



THE WIFE. 41 

loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship 
were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and 
listened to the melting tones of her voice, I could not hut 
smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting hus- 
band. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

" And what of her ] " asked I : " has any thing happened 
to her ? " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it noth- 
ing to be reduced to this j[altj;X situation — to be caged in a 
miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial 
concerns of her wretched habitation 1 " 

" Has she then fepined at the change 1 " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have 
ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, 
and comfort ! " 

J^' Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, 
my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over,, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is 
her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into 



4:2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arrang- 
ing its miserable equipments — she has, for the first time, 
known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has, for the 
first time, looked round her on a home destitute of every 
thing elegant, — almost of every thing convenient ; and may 
now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over 
a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air 
of se'cmsion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet 
it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one 
end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of 
flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass- 
plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath 
tliat wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we 
approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my 
arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, 
in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which 
her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped 
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise 
on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out 
at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard 
— and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a 
pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted 
in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom Avas on her cheek ; her whole 



THE WIFE. 43 

countenance beamed "with smiles — I had never seen her look 
so lovely. 

" My dear Georifc," cried she, " I am so glad you are 
come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and run- 
ning down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a 
table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been 
gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know 
you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — 
and every thing is so sweet and still here — Oh ! " said she, 
putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his 
face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. lie caught her to his bosom 
— he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again 
— he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; 
and he has often assured me, that though the world has since 
gone prosperously with him, aiid his life has, indeed, been a 

happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more 

£* '■ ■ ■ '' 
fexqiiisite felicity. 




EIP YAK WIiq^KLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDKICH KNICKEKBOCKEK. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

CAETWKIGnT. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late 
Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was 
very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners 
of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical re- 
searches, however, did not lie so much among books as among 
men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; 
Avhereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich 
in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, 
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut 
up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he 
looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied 
it with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some 
years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary 
character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better 
than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which 
indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since 
been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all his- 
torical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 45 

work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm 
to his memory to say tliat Ijis time might have been much better 
employed in weiglitier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his 
hobby his own way ; and though it did now and tlien kick up the 
dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of 
some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affec- 
tion ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow 
than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intend- 
ed to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appre- 
ciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good 
opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit- 
bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their 
new-year cakes ; and have thus given him a chance for immortal- 
ity, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a 
Queen Anne's Farthing.] 

X 

TTTHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
• ' member the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dis- 
membered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are 
seen away to the Avest of the river, swelling up to a noble 
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour 
of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and 
shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the 
good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and pur- 
ple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; 
but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, 
they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, 
which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light 
up like <a crown of glory. 

At the foo^: of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 



ti6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the 
nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, 
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the 
early times of the province, just about the beginning of the 
government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in 
peace !) and there were some of the houses of the original 
settlers standing witliin a fow yeai-s, built of small yellow 
bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and 
gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weatlier-beaten), there lived many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good- 
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. lie was a 
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in 
the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 
him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, 
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, 
moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked hus. 
band. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that 
meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popular- 
ity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and con- 
ciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at 
home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and 
malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a 
curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for 
teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termi- 
gaut wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 47 

tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle "wtis thrice 
blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great flivorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable 
SOX, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, 
whenever they talked those matters over iii their evening gos- 
sijjings, to lay all the blame on Dame Yan Winkle. The 
children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever 
lie approached. lie assisted at their sports, made their play- 
things, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever 
he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a 
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and 
not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 
from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit 
on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 
lance, and fish all day withinit a murmur, even though he 
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 
trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down 
dale, to shoot a few sr^uirrels or wild pigeons. He would 
never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, 
and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking In- 
dian corn, or building stone-fences; the women of the village, 
too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such 
little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for 
them. In a word^^Rip was ready to attend to anybody's 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keep' 
ing his farm in order, he found it impossible. 
.J*' In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm : 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country ; every thing about it went wrong, and would go 
Avrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling 
to pieces ; his cow would cither go astray, or get among the 
cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 
anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting in 
. just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though his 
^ patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, 
acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst con- 
ditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his 
own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old 
clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a 
colt at his mother'^ heels, equipped in a pair of his father's 
cast-off g alligaskni s, iwhich he had much ado to hold up with 
one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- 
<als, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the Avorld 
easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with 
least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have 
whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept 
continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his careless- 
ness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
noon, and night, her tongue was incessanf^ goi"g> ^^^ every 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 49 

tiling lie said or did was sure to produce a torrent of house- 
hold eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lec- 
tures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up 
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a 
fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off 
his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side 
which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Itip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was 
as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle 
regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked 
upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's go- 
ing so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting 
an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever- 
during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The 
moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped 
to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, easting many a sidelong glance at Dame 
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, 
he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that 
grows keener with constant use. F r a long Avhile he used 
to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a 
kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other 
idle personages of the village ; Avhich held its sessions on a 
bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of 
His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the 
3 



50 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly ovei 
village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. 
But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have 
heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, 
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from 
some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to 
the contents, as drawled out bv Derrick Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be 
daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and 
how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some 
months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junt^ were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vcdder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of 
the inn, at the door of which he took his scat from morning 
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep 
in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell 
the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. 
It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man 
has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how 
to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or re- 
lated displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe ve- 
hemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry pufis ; 
but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and 
tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and some- 
times, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in to- 
ken of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in 



RIP VAN WINICLE. 61 

upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members 
all to naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Ved- 
der himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible 
' yirag oiwho charged him outright with encouraging her hus- 
band in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and 
clamor of his Avife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at 
the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with 
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in per- 
secution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads 
thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live 
thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf 
would wag his tail, look wistfully m his master's face, and if 
dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the senti- 
ment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day. Kip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of 
squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re- 
echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fotigued, 
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, cov- 
ered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a pre- 
cipice. From an opening between the trees he could over- 
look all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. 
He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, 
moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection 
of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 



Oii THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

{sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the 
blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- 
ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the 
reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 
musing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; 
the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over 
the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he 
could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging 
its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 
he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air ; 
" Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to 
his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip 
now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked 
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see 
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but 
supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of 
his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short 
cquare-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 



Kir VAN WINKLE. 5'6 

beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth 
jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, 
the outer one of ample volume, decorated Avith rows of 
buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore 
on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving 
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the 
dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every 
now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 
ducted, lie paused for an ijistant, but supposing it to be 
the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which 
often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing 
through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphi- 
theatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the 
brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that 
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright 
evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion 
had labored on in silence ; for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor 
up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and 
incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a 
company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. 
They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore 



54 THE SKETCH-TJOOK. 

short doubtlets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, 
and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style 
"with that of the guide's. Their A'isages, too, were peculiar : 
one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes : 
the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
was surmounted by a Avhite sugar-loaf hat, sot off with a little 
red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and 
colors. There was one Avho seemed to be the commander. 
He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten counte- 
nance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high 
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, 
with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the 
figures in an old Fleniish painting, in the parlor of Dominie 
Van Shaiek, the village parson, and which had been brouglit 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Kip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest fjices, the most mysterious silence, and 
were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had 
ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the 
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were 
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of 
thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such 
fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre 
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees 
smote together. His companion now emptied the contents 
of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait 
upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; 



EIP VAN WINKLE, 55 

they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned 
to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. lie 
eyen ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the 
beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent 
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at 
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his 
eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hop- 
ping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was 
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." 
Pie recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange 
man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild 
retreat among the rocks — the wobegone party at nine-pins — 
the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought 
Rip — " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ! " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock foiling ofl", and 
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, hav- 
ing dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, 
too, had disappeared, bat he might have strayed away after a 
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his 



56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and 
shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his 
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiif in 
the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun- 
tain beds do not agree witli me," thought Rip, " and if this 
frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall 
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up 
which he and his companion had ascended the preceding even- 
ing ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now 
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the 
glen with babbling murmurs. lie, however, made shift to 
scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted 
their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such 
opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable 
wall over m Inch the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of 
feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from 
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip 
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after 
his dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of 
idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung 
a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed 
to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What 



EIP VAN WINKLE. 57 

was to be done ? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt 
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up 
Ins dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would 
not do to starve among the mountains. lie shook his head, 
shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for 
he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the 
country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 
from that to Avhich he was accustomed. They all stared at 
him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The 
constant recurrence of this gesture induced Kip, involuntarily, 
to cement same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard 
hacongrwn a foot long ! 

d i-tb^ had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 
pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which 
lustrecognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he 
jnd pd. The very village was altered ; it was larger and more 
javci^lous. There Avere rows of houses which he had never 
sromljbefore, and those which had been his fiimiliar haunts had 
dp to^eared. Strange names were over the doors — strange 
^^^ side at the windows — every thing was strange. His mind 
shcv misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and 
ris' world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was 
ral native village, which he had left but the day before. There 
heiod the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson 
maa distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it 



58 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon 
last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting 
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. 
Tie found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. 
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — " My 
very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all 
his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife anc ., "Iren 

— the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his vt ,. ^nd 

•' *= aetinr. 

then all again Avas silence. >.. . . 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, ihe 

village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety woocen 

building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, s' le 

of them broken and mended with old hats and pettir s, 

^ sue 
and over the door was painted, "the Union Hotel, by^ , ,a- 

than Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to s" ir 

° it ( 

the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was rearec^ ill 
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like p. 
night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which vv> 
singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was stra ^ 
and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, howe 
the ruby face of King George, und,er which he had smoke* , 
many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metai; 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 69 

phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, 
a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head 
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted 
in large characters, General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people 
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, 
with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking 
fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
v.ehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members 
of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — 
and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 
bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-j)iece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women 
and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the 
tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him 
from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled 
up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired " on which 
side he voted ? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another 
short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, 
rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether he was Fede- 
ral or Democrat 1 " Rip was equally at a loss to compre. 
hend the question ; Avhen a knowing, self-important old gentle- 
man, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, 



CO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

putting them to the riglit and loft with his elboAvs as he 
passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one 
arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and 
sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded 
in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a 
gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he 
meant to breed a riot in the village?" — "Alas! gentlemen,'' 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a 
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless 
him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — 
" A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away 
with him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-import- 
ant man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having as- 
sumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the 
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom ho was 
seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant 
no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his 
neighbors, Avho used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin piping voice, '• Nicholas Vedder ! why, he is 
dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Dutcher ?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war ; sonie say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 61 

■ — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anto- 
ny's Nose. I don't know — he never came hack again." 

" Where's Van Buinniel, the schoolmaster V 

''■ He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gene- 
ral, and is now in congress." 

Kip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in tlie 
world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such 
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not 
understand : war — congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage 
to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does 
nobody here know Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

" Oh, Rip Van AVinkle !" exclaimed two or three, " Oh, 
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, 
as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly 
as ragged. The poor follow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or 
another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in 
the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his 
name ? 

" God knows," exclaimed lie, at his wit's end ; " I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's 
somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, 
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my 
gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't 
tell what's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against tlieir fore- 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and 
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very 
suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat 
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a 
fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep 
at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, 
Rip," cried she, '' hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt 
you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone 
of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. 
" What is your name, my good woman 1 " asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name 1 " 

" Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and never has been heard of since — his dog came home with- 
out him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by 
the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with 
a faltering voice : 

" Where's your mother ? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke 
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " 
tried he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 

under it in his flice lor a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! 
it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, 
old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole tAventy years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put 
their tongues in their cheeks : and the self-important man in 
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned 
to the field, screwed down the corners of his -mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there Avas a general shaking of 
the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, Avho was seen slowly advancing up the 
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
Avho Avrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and 
well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the 
neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated 
his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the 
company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor 
the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great 
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, 
kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew 
of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the 
river, and the great city called by his name. That his fiither 
had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at 
nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself 



G4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like 
distant poals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned t:) the more important concerns of the election. 
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer fir a 
husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that 
used to climb upon his back. As to Ripi. son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary 
disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his 
place once more on thk3 bench at the inn door, and was rovci*- 
enced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle 
of the old times " before the war." It was some time before 
he could get into the rogular track of gossip, or could be made 
to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during 
his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — 
that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and 
that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the 
Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, 
in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him ; but there was one species 
of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — ■ 



HIP VAN WINKLE. 65 

petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; he had 
got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in 
and out -whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny 
of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, 
however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast 
up his eyes ; whicli might pass either for an expression of 
resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tellTiis story to every stranger that arrived at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, 
owing to his having so recently aAvaked. It at last settled 
down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man. 
woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. 
Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted 
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point 
on whicli he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabit- 
ants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer 
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson 
and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- 
mon wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor 
Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain : the subjoined 
note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an 
absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, bu: 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOK. . 

Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and 
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated 
to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 
who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly 
rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscien- 
tious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have 
seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is 
beyond the possibility of doubt. 

D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of 
Mr. Knickerbocker : 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have alwaj^s been a region full 
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influ- 
enced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and 
sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw 
spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the 
Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut 
them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and 
cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propiti- 
ated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning 
dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, 
like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the 
heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If 
displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in 
the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; 
and when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian tradition?, there was a kind of Manitou or 
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, 
and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexa- 
tions upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, 
a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through 
tangled forests and among ragged rocks ; and then spring oif with a loud 
ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or 
raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock 
or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 67 

Tines which chmibcr about it, and tlic wild flowers which abound in its 
neigliboiliood, is linowii by (he name of tlie Garden Roclv. Near the 
foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water- 
snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond Hlies which lie 0:1 
the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch 
that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. 
Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated 
to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the 
crotches of trees. One of these lie seized and made off with it, but in the 
hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream 
gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, 
where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the 
Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical 
stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 




ENGLISH WRITEES OK AMERICA. 



"Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself lilce a 
V-'' Btrong man after sleep, and shaking lier invincible locks: methinks I sec her as an 

/\ eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid- 

day beam." 

Milton on the Libeety of tue Pkess. 



TT is with feelings of deej? regret that I observe the literary 
-*- animosity daily growing up between England and Amer- 
ica. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect 
to the United States, and the London press has tB^me 
volumes of travels through the Republic ; but they seem in- 
tended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so suc- 
cessful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant 
intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning 
whom the great mass of the British public have less pure 
information, or entertain more numerous pr^uditos. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can 
equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, 
or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but 
when either the interest or reputation of their own country 
comes in collision with that of another, they go to the op- 
posite extreme, and forget their usual probity and Cjondor, in 
the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of 
ridicule. 



ENGLISH WRITEK8 ON AMERICA. 69 

Hence, their travels arc more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place implicit 
confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions be- 
yond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the 
Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other tract 
which other travellers might be apt to picture out with the 
illusions of their fancies ; but I would cautiously receive his 
account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations with 
which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However 
I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his 
prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited 
by the worst kind of English travellers. While men of phil- 
osophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from 
England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to 
study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, Avitli 
which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit or 
pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, the 
scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches- 
ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting 
America. From such sources she is content to receive her 
information respecting a country in a singular state of moral 
and physical development ; a country in which one of the 
greatest political experiments in the history of the world is 
now performing ; and which presents the most profound and 
momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejuiiiml accounts of Americg, 
is not a matter of surprise. The' ^CTiies it offers for £onj£i«i 
platjion . are too A-ast and elevated for their capaciti^fis^ The 
national character is yet in a state of fermentation ^ it may 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

have its frothines s and.sediment^ but its ingredients are sound 
and wholesome ; it has already given proofs of powerful and 
generous qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down 
into something substantially excellent. But the causes which 
are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- 
tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind 
^observers ; who are only affected by the little asperities in- 
cident to its present situation. They are capable of judging 
only of the surface of things ; of those matters which come 
in contact with their private interests and personal gratifica- 
tions. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty 
comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over- 
populous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor 
are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence 
by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. 
These minor comforts, however, arc all-important in the esti- 
mation of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or 
will not acknowledge, that they are more than counterbal- 
anced among us by great and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un- 
reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pic- 
tured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and 
silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; 
and where they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, 
in some unforeseen, but easy manner. The same weakness 
of mind that indulges absurd expectations produces petulance 
in disappointment. Such persons become embittered against 
the country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a man 
must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by industr}' 
and talent; and must contend with the common difficulties 



ENGLISU WKITEKS ON AMERICA. Yi 

of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterpris- 
ing people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or 
frojn the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the 
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and having 
been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below 
the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling 
of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common boon of 
civility : they attribute to the lowliness of others their own 
elevation ; and underrate a society where there are no arti- 
ficial distinctions, and where, by any chance, such individuals 
as themselves can rise to consequence. 

A One would suppose, however, that informatiou coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is sp dcsir- 
able, would be received with caution by the eeni^^^ra of the 
press ; that the motives of these men, their y CTacin^ . their 
opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capacities 
f)r judging correctly, would be rigorously s crutinized before 
their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against 
a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, 
and it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. 
Nothing can surpass the vigilance w ith which English critics 
will examine the credibility of the traveller who publishes an 
account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant 
country. How war ily will they compare the measurements 
of a pyramid, or the descriptions ~T)f a ruin ; and how sternly 
will they censure any inaccurac_y in these contributions of 
merely curious knowledge : while they will receive, with 
eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations 



f2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country witli 
which their own is jilaced in the most important and delicate 
relations. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal vol- 
umes text-hooks, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an 
ability worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksom e and hackn£yed 
topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the imdue in- 
terest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain 
injurious effects which I apprehended it might produce upon 
the national feeling. We attach too much consequence to 
these attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The 
tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us 
are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. 
Our country continually outgrows them. One falsehood after 
another falls off of itself. Wc have but to live on, and every 
day we live a Avhole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if wc could fur a moment 
suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a com- 
bination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, 
and matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these 
are owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to 
moral causes — to the political liberty, the general diffusion 
of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious 
principles, which give force and sustained energy to the char- 
acter of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowl- 
edged and wonderful supporters of their own national jiower 
and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersion s of 
England s Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by 
the Q^nturnely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not 



ENGLISH "WKITERS ON AifEKICA. 73 

in the opinion of England alone that honor livps, and reputa- 
tion has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a na- 
tion's fame ; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's 
deeds, and from their collective testimony is national glory 
or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not ; it is, 
perhaps, of far more importance to herself She is instilling 
anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to 
grow with its growth and strengthen with its strength. If 
in America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince 
her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic 
foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked 
rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all- 
pervading influence of literature at the present day, and how 
much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its con- 
trol. The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their 
wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the gen- 
erous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen 
pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spir- 
its ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it 
morliiilly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but 
seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between 
two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jeal- 
ousy and ill-will ; a pred isposition to take offence. Trace 
these to their cause, and how often will they be found to 
originate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers ; 
who, secure in their closets, and for igno mimous bread, con- 
^CQiit and circulate the venom that is to inflame the generous 
and the brave. 

4 ' 



74' THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no 
nation does the press hold a more aSsolutd control than over 
the people of America ; for the universal education of the 
poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is 
nothing published in England on the subject of our country 
that does not circulate through every part of it. There is not 
a calumjiy dropped from English pen, nor an unworthy sar- 
casm uttered by an English statesman, that^ does not go to 
blight good-will, and add^to the mass of patent resentment. 
Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head Avhence 
the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in 
her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the 
medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream where 
the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and 
kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters 
of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her 
folly. The present friendship of America may be of but 
little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country 
do not admit of a doubt ; over those of England there lower 
some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom 
arrive ; should these reverses overtake her, from which the 
proudest empires have not been exempt ; she may look back 
with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a 
nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de- 
stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the 
boundaries of her own dominions. 

-'"j^here is a general impression in England, that the people of 
the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one 
of the errors which have been diligently propagated by design. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. T5 

ing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hos- 
tility, and a general soreness at the illiberalit^ of the English 
press ; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the peo- 
ple are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, 
they amounted^ in many parts of the Union, to an absurd de- 
gree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a j^ags? 
port to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too 
often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the un- 
grateful. Throughout the country there was something of 
enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We looked 
to it with a hallowed feelirg of tenderness and yeiicpation, as 
the land of our forefathers — the august repository of the 
monuments and antiquities of our race — the birthplace and 
mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. 
After our own country, there was none in whose glory we 
more delighted — none whose good opinion we were more 
anxious to possess — none towards which our hearts yearned 
with such throbbings of warm c onsa n guinity . Even during 
the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for 
kind feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of the gener- 
ous spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hos- 
tilities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for ever ? 
— Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have 
interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented 
the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give 
up the kindred tie ! and there are feel.n;i;s dearer than interest 
—closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast 



76 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

back a look of regret, as we wander farther and farther from 
the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
England may be in this system of aspersion, recriminatipja on 
our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a 
prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keen- 
est cat'stigatioil of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition 
to retaliate in kind ; to retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; 
which seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let 
us guard particularly against such a temper, for it would 
double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is 
so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but 
it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative 
of a morbid mind, fretted into jpetulanee, rather than warmed 
into indignation. If England is willing to permit the mean 
jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities «f politics, to 
deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of 
public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem 
it her interest to diffuse error, and cjagcnder antipathy, for the 
purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the 
kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy 
to gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we 
are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to 
answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a mere 
spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our retorts 
are never republished in England ; they fall short, therefore, 
of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper 
among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our early 
literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. 



ENGLISH WKITEKS ON AMERICA. 7T 

What is still worse, they circulate through our own country, 
and, as far as they have cfFcct, excite virulent national preju- 
dices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. 
Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost 
care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public 
mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge ; who 
ever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, willfully 
saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should 
be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions 
of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be 
enabled to come, to all questions of national concern with 
calm and uubiased j-adgments. . From the peculiar nature of 
our relations with England, we must have more frequent 
questions of a difficult and delicate character with her than 
with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute 
and excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjusting of these, our 
national measures must ultimately be determined by popular 
sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it 
from alllateht passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from 
every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impar- 
tiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one 
nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercis- 
ing not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more 
rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of 
opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices 1 They are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and 
ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and 



78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I 

looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hos- 
tility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national ex- 
istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the differ- 
ent parts of the habitable w^orld, and the various branches of 
the human family, have been'indeMigably studied and made 
known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our 
birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we 
would the local superstitions of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feel- 
ings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is 
really excellent and amiable in the English character._^ We 
are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must 
take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the 
existing nations of Europe. There is no country more 
worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her consti- 
tution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people 
— their intellectual activity — their freedom of opinion — their 
habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest 
interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all cqhs^. 
ggjai^l to the American character ; and, in fact, are all in tyin- 
sically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people 
that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and 
however the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by 
abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable 
in the materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice, that 
so long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the 
world. •' ,^1, ^ . 

Let it be tha pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 
ft'clings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate, the illiber- 
r.lity of British authors, to speak of the English nation with- 



ENGLISH WRITERS OX AMERICA. 79 

out prejudicQ, gnd with determined candor. While they re- 
buke the in discfiminatiijig bigotry with which some of our 
countrymen admire and imitate every thing English, merely 
because it is English, let them frankly point out what is really 
worthy of approbatioji. We may thus place England before 
us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are recorded 
sound dftduetions from ages of experience ; and wnile we 
avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept mto 
the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical 
wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our na- 
tional character. 



mm 



{^m 



RUEAL LIFE l^ ENGLAND. 

Oh I friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural i)leasures past 1 

CoWPEB. 

THE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character must not confine his observations to 
the metropolis . lie must go forth into the country ; he must 
sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, 
farm-houses, cottages ; he must wander through parks and 
gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about 
country churches ; attend \yakes and fairs, and other rural 
festivals ; and cope with the people in all their conditions, 
and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and 
fashion of the nation ; they arc the only fixed abodes of ele- 
gant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited 
almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the 
contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general 
rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small 
portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, 
and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to 
the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various 



RUEAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 81 

orders of society are therefore diflused over the ^^■nole siirHice 
of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford 
specimens of the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted -with the rural 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of 
nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of 
the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even 
the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick 
walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, 
and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his 
snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often 
displays as much pride aad zeal in the cultivation of his 
flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the 
conduct of his business, and the success of a commercial enter- 
prise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who arc doomed 
to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to 
have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of 
nature. In the most darlc and dingy quarters of the city, the 
drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; 
every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower- 
bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out with pictur- 
esque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
V Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is 
either absorbed, in business, or distracted* by the thousand 
engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this 
huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a look of 
hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on 
the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is 

talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another; and 
4* 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall 
economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the 
morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is calculated 
to make men si'lfish and uninteresting. In their casual and 
transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplace?. 
They present but the cold superficies of character — its rich and 
genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is iu the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. lie breaks loose gladly from the cold for- 
malities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits 
of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He 
manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegan- 
cies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country- 
seat abounds witli every requisite, eitlier for studious retire- 
ment, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paint- 
ings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, 
are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or 
himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means 
of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his 
inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called land scapegardening, is unrivalled. They have 
studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her 
beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 
which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here 
assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to 
have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, lil.9 
witchery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of 



iiUEAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 83 

vivid green, with here and there Ciumps of gigantic trees, 
heaping up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves 
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
across them ; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or tlic 
pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing : the brook, taught 
to wind- m natural meanderin^s or expand into a glassy lake : 
the sequestcfed pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fear- 
lessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic temple or 
sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air 
of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but 
Avhat most delights me^ '}s the creative talent with which the 
English decorate the tihostentatiou s^ abodes of middle life. 
The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty por- 
tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes 
a little paradise. With a nicely d iscrimj nathig eye, he seizes 
at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the 
future landscape. The "sterile spot grows into loveliness 
under his hand ; and yet the opei'ations of art which produce 
the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the 
nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the 
partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
water : all these are ma,naged with a delicate tact, a pervading 
yet quiet ^ssidii'ity,''like the magic touchings with which a 
painter finishes up a ftivorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
. country has 4^iffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 



84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, 
with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends 
to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grassplot before 
the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the 
woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blos- 
soms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the 
holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter 
of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green sum- 
mer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of 
taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the 
lowest levels of the public mind.. If ever Love, as poets 
sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an 
English peasant. 
^m' The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the 
^^^nglish has had a great and sal utary effect upon the national 
character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English 
gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which 
characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a 
union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and 
freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to 
their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly 
the invigorating recreations of the country. These hardy 
exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and 
a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies 
and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can 
never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different 
orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more 
disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The 
distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and 
impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 8^ 

has been distributed into small estates and forms has estab. 
lished a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the 
classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while it haa 
thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into 
each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it 
must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as 
it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of 
distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the 
country, almost annihilate^ the sturdy race of small farmers. 
These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general 
system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and 
beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
operated upon by the jiurest and most elevating of external 
influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he 
cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds 
nothin<T revolting; in an intercourse with the lower orders in 
rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower 
orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and 
is glad to waive the distincti(ins of rank, and to enter into the 
honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very 
amusements of the country bring men more and more to- 
gether ; and the sound of houn4 and horn blend all feelings 
into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the 
nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior 
orders in England than they are in any other country ; and 
why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and 
4* 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal 
distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also 
be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British 
literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; 
those incomparable descriptions of nature that abound in the 
British poets, that have continued down from " the Flower 
and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets 
all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The 
pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid 
nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her 
general charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled 
with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — ■ 
they have watched her minutest caprices, A spray could not 
tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — 
a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance 
could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold 
its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by 
these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occu- 
pations has been wonderful on the face of the country. A 
great part of the island is rather level, and would be mono- 
tonous, were it not for the charms of culture : but it is studded 
and gemned, as it were, withjpastles and palaces, and embroid- 
ered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand 
and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of 
rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house 
and moss-grown cottage is a picture : and as the roads are 
continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and 



RUKAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 87 

hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small 
landsca«pcs of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind 
with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established princi- 
ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing 
seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful exist- 
ence. The old church of remote architecture, with its low 
massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows rich with 
tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation ; its 
stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden 
time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ; its tomb- 
stones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, 
whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the 
same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti- 
quated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages 
and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church- 
yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, 
according to an immemorial right of way — the neighboring 
village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered 
by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have 
sported — the antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on 
the surrounding scene : all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, 
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of 
the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the 



80 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest 
cheerfuhiess, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to 
church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the even- 
ings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to 
exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their 
own hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection 
in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the 
steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close 
these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of 
a modern English jjoet, who has depicted it with remarkable 
felicity : 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw roof'd shed ; 
This western isie hath long been famed for scenea 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A w orld enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. 
Smiles, thoui;h 'tis looking only at the sky.* 

* From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Rev. 
erend Rann Kennedy, A. M. 



THE BEOKEN HEAET. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETOK. 

TT is a common practice with those who have outlived the 
-*- susceptibility^ of early feeling, or have been brought up in 
the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love 
stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere 
jictions j of novelists and poets. My observations on human 
nature have induced me to think otherwise. They have con- 
vinced me, that however the surface of the character may be 
chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into 
mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are d ormant 
fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when 
once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolat- 
ing in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind 
deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I con- 
fess it? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of 
dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it 
a malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe 
that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early 
grave. 



90 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. 
Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song 
piped in the intervals of the acts. lie seeks for fame, for 
fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his 
fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the 
affections. The heart is her world : it is there her ambition 
strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden 
treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she 
embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if ship- 
Wrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the 
heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it 
blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being — 
he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupa- 
tion, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the 
scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he 
can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of 
the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and 
be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of 
sorrow, where shall she look for consolation 1 Her lot is to 
be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is 
like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and 
abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
{^row pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 



THE BKOKEX HEART. 91 

and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As 
the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of 
woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affec- 
tion. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. 
Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but 
when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, 
and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her 
peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great 
charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful 
exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and 
send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. 
Iler rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poi- 
sened by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," 
until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external 
injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friend- 
ship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that 
one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and 
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
tlie worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some 
casual indisposition, that laid her low ;— but no one knows of 
the mental malady which previously sapped her strength, 
and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, tlie pride and beauty of the 
grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 
ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, 
wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 



V'J THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have 
smitten it -with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have 
repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death througli the 
various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed 
love. But an instance of the kind M'as lately told to me ; the 
circumstances are well known in the country where they 
happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which 
they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 
E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon for- 
gotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, con- 
demned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made 
a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — 
so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that 
we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, 
too, was so lofty and .intrepid. The noble indignation with 
which he Jep£llcd the charge of treason against his country — 
the eloquent v iiadication of his name — and his ^atli£liiuippeal 
to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these 
entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his ene- 
mies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he 
had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. 



TirE BROKEN HEART. 93 

When every -worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
his name, she loved him the more ardently for his A'ory suffer- 
ings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole 
soul was occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have hud 
the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence 
all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so 
dishonored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that 
could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender 
though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting 
scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent 
like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting 
hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- 
ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the 
sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced 
no want of consol ation, for the Irish are a people of quick and 
generous sensibilities . The most delicate and cherishing atten- 
tions Avere paid her by families of Avealth and distinction. She 
was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation 
and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
.^tragical, story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There 
are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul 
' — which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, 



94: THE SKETCH-BOOK, 

never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never obj ected 
to jf£qjaent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone 
there as in the depths of solitude ; Avalking about in a sad 
reverie , apparently unconscious of the world around her. She 
carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blan- 
dishments of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charm- 
er, charm he never so wisely." 

""~~" The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 
more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, 
and looking so wan and wobegonc, as if it had tried in vain 
to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sor- 
row. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy 
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down 
on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some 
time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the 
garish scene, she began, with the capriciousncss of a sickly 
heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite 
voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it 
breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd 
mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. 
The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It 
completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his 
addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead 
could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined 
his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by 
the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in 



THE BROKEN HEART. 95 

his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. 
He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense 
of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was 
existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length 
succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assur- 
ance, that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early "woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be 
a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring 
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted 
away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into 
the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing : 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him! 

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'U shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 

From her own loved island of sorrow I 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal dead 
men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ? " 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

"I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
-*- press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on 
which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, 
should teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels 
on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder 
daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very 
simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I 
chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to 
blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mys- 
teries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my 
astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great sa- 
loons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which 
one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather ; 
sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes 
studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and 
sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend 
the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was 
gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to 



THE AKT OF BOOK-MAKING. 97 

a distant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was 
closed, but every now and then it would open, and some 
strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal 
forth, and glide through the rooms, Avithout noticing any of 
the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about 
this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to 
attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that 
facility with Avhich the portals of enchanted castles yield to 
the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious 
chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a 
great number of blaclc-looking portraits of ancient authors. 
About the room were placed long tables, with stands for 
reading and writing, at which sat many pale, studious person- 
ages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their con- 
tents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious 
apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens 
over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the deep sigh of one of 
these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page 
of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hollowness and 
flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a 
jamiliar would appear, take the 2?aper in profound silence, 
glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ^ondg r-/^ 
ous tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth and nail 
with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had 
happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study 
5 



98 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian 
tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the 
bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year ; "where 
he made the spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds 
©f darli knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the 
magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued 
forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above 
the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of 
nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one 
of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and 
begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A 
few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found that these 
mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were 
principally authors, and in the very act of manufacturing 
books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British 
^library — an immense collection of volumes of all ages and 
rtinguages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of 
which are seldom read : one of these gequestered pools of ob-_ 
^solet e literature, to which modern authors repair, and draw 
buckets full of classic lore, or "pure English, uhdcfilca,^ 
wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of t^iought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, 
and watched the process of this book manufxctory. I noticed 
one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He Avas evi. 
dently constructing some work of profound ^eruditidn, tha( 
would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought 
learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid 
open upon his table ; but never read. I observed him, now 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 99 

and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, 
and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was en- 
deavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach pro- 
duced 1)y much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder 
students than myself to determine. 

There M'as one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, 
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with 
his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recog- 
nized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, 
which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see 
how he manufoctured his wares. He made more stir and 
show of business than any of the others ; dipping into various 
books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a 
morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, '• line upon line, 
precept upon precept, here a little and there, a little." The 
contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneou s as those 
of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and 
there a thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with his 
own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make tho 
medley " slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be j^reserved from age to age, in 
spite of the i nevitable decay of the works in which they were 
first produced 1 We see that nature has wisely, though 
whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime 
to clime, in the maws o f certain birds; so that animals, which, 
in themselves, arc little better than carrion, and apparently 



JUULI 



100 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the cornfield, arc, in 
fact, nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. 
In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancjent and 
obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of jprc^&rf^ 
writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a re- 
mote and distant tract of time/ Many of their works, also, 
undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring \ip under new 
forms. What was formerly a ponderous history revives in 
the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern 
play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body 
for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. This it 
is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn 
down a forest of stately pines, a prog eny of dwarf oaks start 
up in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a 
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe 
of fini'ii. - ' w , 

Let us not, then, lament over tlie decay and xxbl ivion into v, 
which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the 
great law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes 
of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which de- 
crees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Genera- 
tion after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes 
away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and 
the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors 
beget authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in 
a good old age they sleep with their fithers, that is to say, 
with the authors who preceded them — and from whom they 
had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 



THE AKT OF BOOK-MAKING. 101 

it was owing to the soporific ^r nn,nation s from tliese works ; 
or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of nap- 
ping at improper times and places, Avith which I am griev- 
ously afllicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, how- 
ever, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same 
scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed 
in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still 
decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but that the 
number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, 
and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare 
tlirong, such as may be seen plying about the great repos- 
itory of cast-olT clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they 
seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or an. 
tique fashion, with which they procQeded to equip themselves. 
I noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe himself 
from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape 
from another, a skirt from a thirds thus decking himself out 
piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out 
from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polejuicaJ writers through an 
eye-glass. lie soon contrived to slip on the voluminous 
mantle of one. of the old fathers, and, having purloined the 
gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; 
but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at 
naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking 
gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment 
with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

reign of Queen Elizabetli. Another had trimmed himself 
magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a 
nosegay in his hosom, culled from " The Paradise of Daintie 
Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side 
of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar el- 
egance. A third, -who was but of puny dimensions, had 
bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several 
obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposijig 
front; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived 
that he had patched his small-clothes Avith scraps of parch- 
ment from a Latin author. 
\/ There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornameijts, without eclipsing them. Some, 
too, seemed to ^ntenVplaite the costumes of the old writers, 
merely to imbil)c uieir principles of taste, and to catch their 
air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to 
array themselves from top to toe in the patchwork manner I 
liavc mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in 
drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat,who had a 
violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wander- 
ings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, 
and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. lie had decked him- 
self in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, 
and, hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantas- 
tical lack-a-daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But 
the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- 
cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably largo 
and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing 
and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look 



THE AET OF BOOK-MAKING. 103 

of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick 
Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestic- 
ally away in a forniidahle frizzled Avig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves ! " I 
looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall beacme an- 
imated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a 
shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an 
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with 
fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene 
of scampering and hubbub that ensued baflles all description. 
The unhaj^py culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their 
plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, 
stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad de- 
vastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic Avriters. 
Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field 
like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted 
more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in 
Flanders. As to the dapper little j^rrpi'jpr of farragos, men- 
tioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many 
patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a 
contention of claimants about him, as about the dead body of 
Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had 
been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fixin to 
steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just 
then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in 
the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore 
affright Avith half a score of authors in full cry after him.' 
They were close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went 
his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled 



A' 



104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, 
he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald shot," and made 
his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastr ophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
tlie scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual 
appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture- 
frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In 
short, I found myself wide awke in my corner, with the whole 
assemblage of book-worms gazing at me with astonishment. 
Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, 
a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so 
abhorrent to the cars of wisdom, as to electrify the fra- 
'''"' ternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not com- 
prehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of 
literary '• preserve," subject to game-laws, and that no one 
must presume to hunt there without special license and per- 
mission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant 
poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I 
should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 




A EOYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound. 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Keither check nor chain hath found, 
Look out nobly, then, and daro 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

/^N a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, 1 
^-^ made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place 
full of storied and poetical associations. The very external 
aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. 
It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural 
crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal ban- 
ner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly air, upon the 
surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous ver- 
jial kind, which calls forth all the la tent romance of a man's 
tem perament , filling his mind with music, and disposing him 
to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through 
the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the 
castle, I passed with indifference by whole roAvs of portraits 
of warriors and statesmen, but Ungered in the chamber, where 
hang the likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay 



106 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

court of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, de^ 
picted with amorous, half- dishevelled tresses, an d the sleepy 
eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had 
thus enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In 
traversing also the " large green courts," with sunshine beam- 
ing on the gray walls, and glancing along the velvet turf, my 
mind was engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, 
but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about 
them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady Ger- 

aldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the 
ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scot- 
land, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, 
was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. 
It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and 
is still ia good preservation. It stands on a nnound, which 
elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and a great 
flight of steps leads to the interior. In the armory, a Gothic 
hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was 
shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which had 
once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a stair- 
case to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with 
storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of 
that passionate and fanciful amour, which has woven into the 
web of his story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince 
is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent 
ii'om homo by his father, Robert III., and destined for the 



A EOYAL POET. 107 

French court, to be reared under the eye of the French mon- 
arch, secure from the treachery and danger that surrounded 
the royal house of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course 
of his voyage to fall into the hands of the English, and he was 
detained prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce 
existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
fother. " The news," we are told, " was brought to him while 
at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was 
almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the ser- 
vant that attended him. But being carried to his bed-cham- 
ber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died of 
hunger and grief at Rothesay." * 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; 
but though deprived of personal liberty, ho was treated with 
the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him 
in all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that 
period, and to give him those mental and personal accomplish- 
ments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, 
his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled him to 
apply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, and 
quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish 
those elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his 
memory. The picture drawn of him in early life, by the 
Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the 
description cf a hero of romance, than of a character in real 
history. He was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the 

* Buchanan. 



108 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sword, to joust, to tourna,y, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he 
was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute 
and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and Avas 
expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." * 
' With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and 
calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, 
it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and 
chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous 
captivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be 
gifted Avith a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his 
prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds 
corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; 
others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the 
poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of 
confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own 
thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in 
melody. 

Ilave you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How dotli she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs arc trees, her cage a grove. f 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it 
is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is 
shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necro- 

* Ballcnden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 
I Roger L'Estrange. 




109 

mantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and 
brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and irradiate the 
gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and 
pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, 
when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and 
we may consider the " King's Quair," composed by James, 
during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful 
breakings-forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of 
the prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of 
the blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in 
the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, 
is that it may bo considered a transcript of the royal bard's 
true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It 
is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal 
in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to 
find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his 
closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to his 
pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual 
competition, which strips off all the trappings of factitious 
dignity, brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow- 
men, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers for 
distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a mon- 
arch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human nature 
throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a 
poet before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and 
reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have 
seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their 

minds into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst 
5* 




110 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the adulation and gayety of a court, we should never, in all 
probability, have had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his 
situation, or Avhich are connected Avith the apartment in the 
tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are 
given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader 
present with the captive in his prison, and the companion of 
his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea of 
writing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moon- 
light night ; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the 
high vault of heaven : and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks 
in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took 
a book to besuile the tedious hours. The book he chose was 
Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among 
the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his 
great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which 
he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes 
while in prison : and indeed it is an admirable text-book for 
meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and 
enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing 
to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, 
and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it 
was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is 
a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
pillow. 

After closing the volume, ho turns its contents over in his 



A KOYAL POET. Ill 

mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickle- 
ness of fortune, the vicissitudea of his own life, and the evils 
tliat had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly 
he hears the hell ringing to mathis ; but its sound, chiming in 
with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice ex- 
horting him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic 
crraiitc^ he determines to comply with this intimation : he 
therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross 
to implore a henediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land 
of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, 
and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful in- 
stance of the simple manner in Avhich whole trains of poetical 
thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises 
suggested to the mind. 

' In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fote ; thus doomed to lonely and. 
inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of 
the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. 
There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they 
are the lamentations of an amiable and social spirit at being 
denied the indulgence of its kind and generous propensi ties ; 
uiere" is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow 
with a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered 
more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely 
with those elaborate and iterated repinings, which we some- 
times meet with in poetry ; — the effusions of morlnd minds 
sickening under miseries of their own creating, and. venting 
their bitterness upon an unoffending world. ^ James speaks of 
nis privations with acute sensibility, but having mentioned 
them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over 



112 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into 
complaint, hoAvever brief, we are aware how great must be 
the suffering that extorts the murmur. AVc sympathize with 
James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in 
the lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, 
and vigorous delights of life ; as Ave do Avith Milton, alive to 
all the beauties of nature and glories of art, Avhen he breathes 
forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual 
blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have suspected that these loAverings of gloomy 
reflection Avere meant as preparative to the brightest scene of 
his story ; and to contrast Avith that refulgence ^of light and 
loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, 
and foliage and floAver, and all the revel of the year, with 
which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in 
particular, Avhich throws all the magic of romance about the 
old Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, accord- 
ing to custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a 
sleepless pilloAV. " BeAvailing in his chamber thus alone," de- 
spairing of all joy and remedy, " fortired of thought and avo- 
begone," he had Avandered to the AvindoAV, to indulge the cap- 
tive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the Avorld from 
which he is excluded. The AvindoAV looked forth upon a small 
garden which lay at tlie foot of the toAver. It Avas a quiet, 
sheltered spot, adorned Avith arbors and green alleys, and 
protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn 
hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 



A EOYAL POET. 113 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knct, 
That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
Tliat as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistisf set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was in Lloom ; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
of his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun. 

And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
hirds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and un- 
definable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this do- 

* Lyf^ Person. f Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Jiote. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



Il# Tin: SKETCH-BOOK. 

licious season. lie wonders "what this love may be, of Avhich 
he has so often read, and uhich thus seems breathed forth in 
the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into 
ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it 
be a boon tlius generally dispensed to the most insignificant 
beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde f 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd : 

Hath he upon our hcrtcs such maistryc ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For giff he be of so gretc excellence. 

That he of every wight hath care and charge. 

What have I giltf to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever 
he had seen. It is tho lovely Lady Jane, walking in the 
garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." 
Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of 
loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the 
fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the object of his 
wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance 
to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon 
and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whoin they see Avalking in 

* Setten,inclme. f Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



A EOYAL POET. 115 

the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the 
actual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may 
have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. Ilis de- 
scription of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and 
minute manner of his master ; and being doubtless taken 
from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. 
He dwells, Avith the fondness of a lover, on every article of 
her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds 
and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the 
'goodly chaine of small orfeverye"* about her neck, where- 
bv there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he 
says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Iler 
dress of MJute tissue was looped up to enable her to walk 
with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female 
attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated 
with bells; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite 
symmetry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the 
fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his de- 
scription by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty, 'with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and ■womanly feature ; 

God better knows then my pea can report, 

Wisdom, largesse, f estate, | and cunning § sure, 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
That nature misrht no more her child advance. 



A 



The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end 
to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs thfl 

* Wrought gold. f Largesse, bounty. 

\ Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 



116 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

amorous illusion that liad shed a temporary charm over tho 
scene of his captivity, and he rehipses into loneliness, now 
rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of 
unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he 
lupines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches, and 
Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had '• bade farewell 
to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, 
laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled 
flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute 
melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, "half sleeping, 
half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the remainder of 
the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the his. 
tory of his passion. 

When he wakes from lus trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, 
questions his spirit, whither it has been wandering ; whether, 
indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been 
conjured up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a 
vision, intended to comfort and assure him in his desponc}- 
ency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to 
confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his slum- 
bers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes 
flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in 
her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is 
U'ritten, in letters of gold, the following sentence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 



A ROYAL POET. 117 

lie receives the branch uith mingled hope and dread ; 
reads it uith rapture : and this, he says, was the first token 
of liis succeeding happiness. Wlicthcr this is a mere poetic 
fiction, or Avhether the Lady Jane did actually send him a 
token of her fivor in this romantic way, remains to be deter- 
mined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. lie con- 
cludes his poem, by intimating that the promise conveyed in 
the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by his being restored 
to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the sovereign 
of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless 
to conjecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic inci- 
dent as i ncompatibl e with real life ; but let us sometimes 
take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those parts 
of the poem immediately connected with the tower, and have 
passed over a large part, written in the allegorjcal vein, so 
much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is 
quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its 
golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present 
day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed with the genuine 
sentiment, the delightful artlcssness and urbanity, which pre- 
vail throughout it. The descriptions of nature too, with 
which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimjna- 
tioru and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated periods 
of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifxlflS- ^^ these days of 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exqui- 
site delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every gro ss thought 



118 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness, 
clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatu ral 
purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Ch aucec , and 
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them 
as his masters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces 
of similarity to their productions, more especially to those 
of Chaucer. There are always, however, general features of 
resemblance in the works of contemporary authors, Avhich are 
not so much borrowed from each other as from the times. 
Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they 
incorporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and 
thoughts current in society ; and thus each generation has 
some features in common, characteristic of the age in which 
it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our 
literary history, and establishes the claims of his country 
to a pa rticipation in its priimtiA'e' honors, i Whilst a small 
cluster of English writers are constantly jdted as the fathers 
of our verse, the name of their great Scottish, cojoipcculs apt 
to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy of 
being enrolled in that little constellation of remote but never- 
failing luminaries, who shine in the liighest firmament of liter- 
ature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright 
dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in which it has of late been woven 
\Yith captivating fiction has made it a universal study), may be 
curious to learn something of the subsequent history of 



A EOYAL rOET. 119 

James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the 
Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated 
his release, it being imagined by the court that a connection 
with the blood royal of England would attach him to its own 
interests. lie was ultimately restored to his liberty and 
crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accom- 
panied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and 
devoted wife. ^^^**^^'-^--^ 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their posses- 
sions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. 
James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections 
of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the 
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administra- 
tion of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and 
the promotion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, coin- 
petency, and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks 
of society. He mingled occasionally among the common 
people in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their 
cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed him- 
self of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be pat- 
ronized and improved ; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, 
watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his sub- 
jects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong 
in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to 
curb the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of 
those dangeroug .immunities which they had usurped ; to punish 
such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the 
whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time 



120 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

they bore this ^^ ith outward submission, but -with secret im- 
patience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at 
length formed against his life, at the head of which was his 
own uncle, Kobert Stewart, Earl of Athol, Avho, being too old 
himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, i nstigated 
his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together Avith Sir Robert 
Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They 
broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent ne-'"^ 
Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him 
by oft-repeated Avounds. Ilis faithful queen, rushing to throw 
her tender body between him and the sword, was twice 
wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the 
assassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from 
his person, that the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace 
in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than 
common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, 
richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, 
brought the image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly 
before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where 
he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and 
endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where he 
had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot 
where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It Avas the same 
genial and joyous month ; the birds Avere again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody ; every thing Avas bursting 
into A'egetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the 
year. Time, Avhich delights to obliterate the sterner memorials 
of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little 



A EOYAL rOET. 121 

scene of poetry and love, , uj. i.o have withheld his desolating 
hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still 
flourishes at the foot of the Tower. It occupies Avhat was once 
the moat of the Keep ; and though some parts have been 
separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors 
and shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is 
sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a 
spot that lias been printed by the footsteps of departed 
beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which 
is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It 
is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which 
it moves ; to breathe around nature an odor more exquisite 
than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more 
magical than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of 
the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 
sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common 
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy 
plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so prolific 
of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit. He carried 
with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertiliz- 
ing arts of southern refinement. He did every thing in hi% 
power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and 
gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, 
and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and war- 
like spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for 
the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which 
is still preserved, called '• Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows 
6 



122 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic 
sports and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and 
social feeling among the Scottish jicasantry ; and with what 
simple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. 
He contributed greatly to improve the national music ; and 
traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to 
exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild moun. 
tains and lonely glens of Scotland. lie has thus connected 
his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in 
the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song, 
and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams of Scot- 
tish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling 
at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. 
I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim 
would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more 
poetical devotion than when contemplating the old Tower and 
the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic 
loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CIIUECII. 



A gentleman ! 

"What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest? 

Or lists of velvet ? which is "t, pound, or yard, 

Tou vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Bush. 



npB ERE arc few places more favorable to the study of 
- character than an English country church. I was once 
j^assing a few Aveeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the 
vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struck 
my foncy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint 
antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English land- 
scape. It stood in the midst of a country filled, with ancient 
families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the 
congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior 
walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and style. 
The light streamed throuiih windows dimmed with armo- 
rial bearings, richly e mblazo ned in stained glass. In various 
parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born 
dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their e_ffigies in col- 
ored marble. On every side the eye was struck with some 
instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial wliich 
human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple 
of the most humble of all relijxions. 



124 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people 
of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, 
furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with 
their arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasr 
antry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside 
the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, Avho were ranged 
on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a 
privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and 
had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and 
good living had disabled him from doing any thing more than 
ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting 
dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, 1 found it impossible 
to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : 
so, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised 
with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency 
at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making 
/| observations on my neighbors. 
I /^I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that 
there was the least pretension where there was the most 
acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for 
instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consist- 
ing of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more 
simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally 
came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. 
The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest 
manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to 



THE COUNTRY CHTJECH. 125 

the stories of the humble cotttagers. Their countenances were 
open and beautifully fair, Avith an expression of high refine- 
ment, but, at the saine time, a frank cheerfulnes, and an engag- 
ing aflaliility. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly foi-med. 
They were dressed fashionably, but simply ; with strict neat- 
ness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppish- 
ness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that 
lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak freeborn souls 
that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of 
inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, 
that never dreads c ontact and comm^umon with others, how- 
ever humble. It is only s purious pride that is morbid and 
sensitive, and shrinks from every touch, I was pleased to see 
the manner in which they would converse with the peasantry 
about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the gentle- 
men of this country so much delight. In these conversations 
there Avas neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility 
on the other ; and you were only reminded of the difference 
of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a Avealthy citizen, 
Avho had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the 
estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor- 
hood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of 
an hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to 
church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a 
carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver 
radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could 
possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, 
richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy 
face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside 



126 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, Avitli liuge bouquets, 
and gold-headed canes, lolled beliind. The carriage rose and 
sunk on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. 
The very horses champed their hits, arched their necks, and 
glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses ; cither 
because they had caught a little of the family feeling, or were 
reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not hut admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. 
There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of 
the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scram- 
bling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels 
through gravel. Tiiis was the moment of triumph and vain- 
glory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked 
until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their 
feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. 
The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened 
precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. 
On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden- 
ness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them 
on their haunches. 

Tlicre was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent 
on earth of this i^igust family. The old citizen first emerged 
his round red face from out the door, looking about him with 
the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and 
shake the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fmc, 
fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I 
must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was 
the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world 



TUB COUNTRY CHURCH. 



127 



went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine 
clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing 
was fine about Jier : it was nothing hut driving about, and 
visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it 
was one long Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fiishionable in dress ; and, though no one 
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appro- 
priateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a 
country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, 
and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed 
dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance 
an)und, that passed coldly over the burly fiices of the peas- 
antry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, 
when their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, 
and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, 
which were returned in a manner that showed they were but 
slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who 
came to church in a dashing curriclCj with outriders. They 
were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that 
pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable pre- 
tensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing 
every on e askance that came near them, as if measuring his 
claims to respectability ; yet they were without conversation, 
except the exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even 
moved artificially ; for their bodies, in compliance with the 
caprice of the day, had been disciplined into the absence of alj 



128 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ease and freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish 
them as men of fashion, hut nature had denied them the name- 
less grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for 
the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious 
assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, 
and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, 
unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I 
have remarked in all countries where artificial distinctions 
exist, that the very highest classes are always the most cour- 
teous and unassuming. Those who are avcII assured of their 
own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others : 
whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, 
which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect 
for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good 
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual 
flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness 
of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of a 
rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. lie took the whole burden of flxmily devotion upon 
himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses 
with a loud voice that might be heard all over the chui-ch. It 
was evident that he was one of those thorough church and 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 129 

king men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who 
consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government 
party, and religion " a very excellent sort of thing, that ought 
to be countenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; 
as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin 
of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and 
pronouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was -curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 
across the fields, chatting Avith the country people as they went. 
The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again 
were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was 
again the smacking of Avhips, the clattering of hoofs, and the 
fjlitterintj of harness. The horses started off almost at a 
bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the 
wheels threw up a cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family was 
rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



'Ki(5f^o-?^<^« 






6* 



THE WIDOW AND HER SOX, 

Pittici oldo ago, within whose silver haires 
llonour and reverence evermore have rainM. 

Marulowe's Tamburlaine. 

rpHOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters, 
-*- must have noticed the passive quiet of an English hind- 
scape on Sunday. The chicking of the mill, the regularly 
.recurrin g stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's ham- 
mer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, 
and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very 
farm dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by pass- 
ing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds 
sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, Avith its fresh 
green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed 
calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a 
day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of 
nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is 
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul 
gently springing up within us. For my part, there are feeh 
ings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beautiful 



THE WIDOW AND UEII SON. 131 

serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and if 
not a more religious, I thinlc I am a Letter man on Sunday 
than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used fre- 
quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy 
aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken panelling, 
all reverend w ith the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit 
it fov the haunt of solemn meditjition ; but being in a wealthy 
aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated 
even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself continually thrown 
back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor 
worms around me. The only being in the whole congrega- 
tion who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and pros - 
trate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, 
bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore 
the traces of something better than ab ject poverty. The 
lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. 
Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scru])uliiusly 
clean. Some___tiiidal respect, too, had been awarded her, for 
she did not take her seat among the village poor, Init sat 
alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived 
all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left 
her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly risino- 
and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning 
her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes 
would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew 
by heart ; I f^dt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor 
woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, 
the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 



132 



THE SKETCn-BOOK. 



was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beau- 
tiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of 
soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew- 
trees which seemed almost coexgl,Avith itself. j|^ Its tall Gothic 
spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows 
generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still 
sunny morning, watchirg two laborers who were digging a 
grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neg- 
lected corners of the church-yard ; where, from the number 
of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indi gent 
and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that 
the new-made grave Avas for the only son of a poor widow. 
While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, 
which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the 
bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the 
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. 
A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other cover- 
ing, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 
before Avith an air of cold indifference. There were no mock 
mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one 
real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the 
aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman Avhom I 
had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported 
by a humble friend, who Avas endeaA'oring to comfort her. A 
fcAv of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some 
children of the village Avere running hand in hand, noAV shout- 
ing Avith unthinking mirth, and noAV pausing to gaze, Avith 
childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 133 

from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, 
was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, 
and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, 
therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed 
priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; his voice 
could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear 
the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, 
turned into such a frigid mummery of Avords. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- 
ceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother 
had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her with- 
ered hands were clasped, as if in jirayer, but I could perceive 
by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of 
her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, 
with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on 
the feelings of grief and affiection ; directions given in the cold 
tones of business : the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; 
which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the 
most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the 
mother from a wretched reverie. Slie raised her glazed eyes, 
and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men ap- 
proached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she 
wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief The 
poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeav- 
oring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something 
like consolation — " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so 



134 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring 
her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of 
the cords seemed to agonize her ; bat when, on some acci- 
dental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the 
tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could 
come to him who was far beyond the reach of world'y suffer- 
ing. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbar- 
ous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I wandered to another jiart of the church- 
yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my 
heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of 
the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile- — 
a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the 
sorrows of the young ! Their growing minds soon close 
above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the 
pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twine round 
new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no out- 
ward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with 
wh(nn life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for 
no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, sol- 
itary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 135 

way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as com- 
forter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother 
to her h^iely habitation, and 1 drew from her some particu- 
lars connected witli the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

Tlie parents of the deceased had resided in the viUage 
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cot- 
tages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of 
a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and com- 
fortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one 
son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. 
— " Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, " he was such a comely 
lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so 
dutiful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of 
a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so 
cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for she was al- 
ways fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her good 
man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a 
finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service 
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. 
He had not been long in this employ when he was en- 
trapped by a press;gang, and carried off to sea. His parents 
received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could 
learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The 
father, who was already infirm, crew heartless and melan- 
choly, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in 
her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and 
came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward 
her throughout the village, and a certain respect as being one 



136 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, 
in which she had passed so many happy days, she was per- 
mitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost 
helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from 
the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neigh- 
bors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few 
days before the time at which these circumstances were told 
me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, 
when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden sud- 
denly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be look- 
ing eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's 
clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of 
one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and 
hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; 
he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The 
poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering 
eye — '* Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your 
son ] your poor boy, George 1 " It was indeed the wreck of 
her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness 
and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted 
limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he 
was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort 
and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in 
him ; and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work 
of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been 
sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his 
widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and 
he never rose from it asain. 



THE WIDOW AND HEK SON. 137 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and as- 
sistance that their humble means afforded. He was too 
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His 
mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling 
to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- 
vanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined 
on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign 
land ; but has thought on the mother " that looked on his 
childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his 
helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the 
love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affections 
of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor 
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoy- 
ment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity : 
— and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to 
her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, 
she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; 
and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the 
world to him. 

Poor George Someis had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none 
to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his siglit ; 
if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit 
for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes 



138 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up 
Until he saw her bending over him ; when he would take her 
hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquil- 
lity of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction 
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pe- 
cuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how- 
ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had 
prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted : 
and as the poor know best how to console each other's sor- 
rows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to 
my surj^rise, I saw the poor old Avoman tottering down the 
aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this 
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or two 
more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the 
storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marlde 
pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over de- 
parted pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by 
age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up the 
prayers and j^raises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt 
that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 

the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 

themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 

, lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



139 



steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before 1 
I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feelhig of satisfaction, 
that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin 
tliose she loved, in that world where sorrow is never knowUj 
and friends are never parted. 




A SUNDAY 11^ LONDOK* 

TN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday 
-*- in the country, and its tranquillizing effect upon the land- 
scape ; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly ap- 
parent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London 1 
On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into re- 
pose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an 
end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufac- 
tories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer obscured by 
murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance 
into the quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead 
of hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move leisure- 
ly along ; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of 
business and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks, and 
Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed 
in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
issues from his mansion the family of the decent tradesman, 
the small children in the advance ; then the citizen and his 
comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters, with 
small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of their 

* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 141 

pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from 
the window, admiring the finery of the fomily, and receiving, 
perhaps, a nod and smile from her young mistresses, at Avhose 
toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some ma gnate of the 
city, peradventurc an alderman or a sheriflf; and now the 
patter of many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, 
in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under 
his arm. 

The rinffinir of bells is at an end : the rumbling of the car- 
riage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the 
flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes 
and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle 
keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of 
the sanctuary. For a time every thing is hushed ; but soon 
is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and 
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts ; and the sweet 
chanting of the choir making them resound with melody and 
praise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying 
effect of church music, than Avhen I have heard it thus poured 
forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost recesses of this 
great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid 
pollutions of the week ; and bearing the poor world-worn 
soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again 
alive with the congregations returning to their homes, but 
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday 
dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some im- 
portance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the 
board. Members of the family can now gather together, who 



142 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

are separated by the laborious occupations of the week. A 
school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the 
paternal home; an old friend of the flxmily takes his accus- 
tomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-known 
gtories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to 
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and 
rural curimJis. Sati;;ists may say what they please about 
the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to 
me there is something delightful in beholding the poor pris- 
oner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come 
forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom 
of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast ; 
and they who fa-st spread out these noble parks and magnifi- 
cent pleasure-grounds which surround tliis huge metropolis, 
have done at least as much for its health and morality, as if 
they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, 
and penitentiaries. 



%5i2# 



4©|. 



THE BOAE'S HEAD TAVEEK, EASTCHEAP. 

A SlIAKSrEARIAN RESEAECn. 

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I hava 

Lcard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it 

was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 'it was a good wind 

that blew a man to the wine. ' " 

Mother Bombie. 

TT is a pious custom, in sonic Catholic countries, to honoi- 
-*- the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their 
pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be knov/n 
by the number of these oflerings. One, perhaps, is left to 
moulder in the darkness of his little chapel ; another may 
have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking ray s athwart his 
effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the 
shrine of some bea tified father of renown. The wealthy de- 
votee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zerj jo^ his 
seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicanj.,pilgi'im is 
by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the de- 
ceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The 
consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often 
apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint 
almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his 
followers. 



ff 



V 144 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

;\ 

Tn like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
Every Avriter considers it his bounden duty to light up some 
portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit 
from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces 
vast tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send 
up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each 
page ; and every casual scribbler brings his flirthing rushlight 
of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of 
smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of hom- 
age to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some 
time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge 
this duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a 
new reading ; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen 
different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucida- 
tion ; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised 
by previous admirers ; nay, so completely had the "bard, of 
late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German 
critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had 
not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry 
IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revel- 
ry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are 
these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and con- 
sistency are the characters sustained, that they become min- 
gled up in the mind with the fiicts and personages of real life. 
To few readers does it occur, that these are all ideal creations 
of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of 



THE boar's head TAVERN, EASTCIIEAP. 145 

merry roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of 
Easteheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valu- 
able to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years 
since : and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the 
common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack 
for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
heroes of yore done for me, or men like me 1 They have 
conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they 
have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; or they 
have furnished examj^les of hair-brained prowess, which I have 
neither the opj^ortunity nor the inclination to follow. But, 
old Jack Falstaff!~kind Jack FalstafT !— sweet Jack FalstafF! 
— has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment ; he has 
added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which the 
poorest man may i>evel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing 
inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and 
better to the latest posterity, 

A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pilgrim- 
age to Easteheap," said I, closing the book, ^-and see if the 
old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may 
light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her 
guests ; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, in 
treading the halls once vocal ^\'ith their mirth, to that the 
toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with 
generous wine." 

The resolution was no sctoner formed than put in execu- 
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders 
I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock 
T 



146 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Lane ; of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts ad- 
jacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and old Jewry ; 
of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the 
pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky 
urchins ; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my 
staff upon it, in imitation of that arch reljcl. Jack Cade. 

Let it suflice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the 
very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding 
Lane bears testimony even at the present day. For East- 
cheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for its convivial 
doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well 
baked, and other victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, 
harpe, pipe, and sawtric." Alas ! how sadly is the scene 
changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! 
The madcap roystcr has given place to the plodding trades- 
man ; the clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and 
sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging of the 
dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain 
of some siren from Billiiaggate, chanting the eulogy of de- 
ceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into 
the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I 
was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had 
been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to 
as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found 



THE BOAK^S HEAD TAVEKN, EASTCHEAP. 14V 

her seated in a little back parlor, the -window of which looked 
out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower- 
garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep 
of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles : the 
two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects 
in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, 
and had her being, for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even imto the Monument, was doubtless, 
in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the uni- 
verse. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true 
wisdom, and that liberal communicative disposition, which I 
have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in 
the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the 
Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the 
valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was un- 
fortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued 
to flourish under the old name and. sign, until a dying land- 
lord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, 
and other iniquities, Avhich are incident to the sinful race of 
publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven, by be- 
queathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, 
towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the 
vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it was ob- 
served that the old Boar never held up his head under church 
government. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last 
gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned 
into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was still 



148 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the 
rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determina^ 
tion ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, 1 
took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my 
visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legend- 
ary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history 
of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to ex- 
plore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and 
dark passages, with -which this old city is pcrforatcdj^like an 
ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length 
I traced him to a corner of a small court surrounded by lofty 
houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face 
of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowv 
ing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, 
and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleas- 
antry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to 
make in the company of high churchwardens, and other 
mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the 
deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discours- 
ing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs 
of the church over a friendly pot of ale — for the lower classes 
of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without 
the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. 
I arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale 
and their argument, and were about to repair to the church 
to put it in order ; so having made known my wishes, I re- 
ceived their gracious permissioif to accompany them. 



THE BOAe's head TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 149 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a 
short distance frpm Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of 
many fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has 
its gala^ of glory, and its constellation of great men, I pre- 
sume the monument of a mighty fislmionger of the olden time 
is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations 
of the craxlt, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, , 
or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains 
also the ashes of that douglity champion, William Walworth, 
knight, Avho so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as al- 
most the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of 
arms : — the sovereigns of Cockney) being generally renowned 
as the most pacific of all potentates.'^ 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of 
this worthy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagra- 
tion. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name ; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght. 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew cntent. 
The Kyng made liim knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him armes, as here you sec. 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing insciiption has been corrected by the ven- 
erable Stowe. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread abroad 
by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir Wil- 



150 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

i Adjoining the church, in a small cemetei«y, immediately 
under the back -window of what was once the Boar's Head, 
stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, Avhilom drawer at 
the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus 
quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was 
clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton 
drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me 
in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark Avintry night, 
Avhen the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging 
about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that 
the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the 
dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of 
honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call of " waiter " 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the 
midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing 
a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain Death ; " to the 
disaomSXnyo. of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion 
of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the 
spot, and Avas never known to twist the truth afterwards, 
except in the Avay of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself 
for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known 
that the church-yards and by-corners of this old metropolis 

liani Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, 
and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived 
doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The 
principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the 
first man ; the second was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. 

Stowe's London. 



THE boar's head tavern, eastciieap. 151 

are very much infested ^vitll perturbed spirits ; and every ono 
must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition 
that guards the regalia in the Tov/cr, which has frightened so 
many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nin^ble-tongued Francis, who 
ftttonded upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally 
prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have transcended 
Ills predecessor in honesty ; for FalstafF, the veracity of whose 
taste no man will venture to Jmpeach, flatly accuses Francis 
of patting lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph 
lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of 
his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy 
dignitar ies of the church, however, did not appear much 
captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy 
organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some 
shrewd remark on the abstemiousne ss of a man brought up 
among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his 
opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the 
head. 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it 
for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the pro- 
Juction of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defyM 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined. 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his fiiults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



152 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 04 
the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet 
disappointed mo in the great object of my quest, the picture 
of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting Avas to bo 
i'ound in the church of St. Michael. "Marry and amen!" 
said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was giving the mat- 
ter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend 
the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in every thing relative 
to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the 
vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when 
the parish meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These 
were deposited in the parish club-room, which had been trans- 
ferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern 
in the neighborhood. 

A few stej)s brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 
Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is 
kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the 
establishment. It is one of those little taverns which abound 
in lh3 heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and 
intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, 
which was narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes 
but few rays of reflected light arc enabled to struggle down 
to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable 
twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each contain- 
ing a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. 
This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and 
divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At 
the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which 
a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candle- 
sticks and pewter mugs glistened along the mantlepiece, and 



THE boak's head tavern, eastcheap. 153 

an old-fasliioned clock ticked in one corner. There "was some- 
thing primidre in this medle^j of kitchen, parlor, and hall, 
that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The 
place, indeed, was humble, but every thing had that look of 
order and neatness, -which bespeaks the superintendence of a 
)iotable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking 
beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling 
themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather 
higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back- 
room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a sky- 
light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented 
with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated 
to particular customers, and 1 found a shabby gentleman, in a 
red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on 
a half-empty pot of porter. ^~/^ 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an 
air of prt)found importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Iloneyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, 
and no bad substitute for that par agoi } of hostesses, Dame 
Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to 
oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archive s of her house, 
where the precious v^essels of the parish club were deposited, 
she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in'her hands. 
/^The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- 
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had 
smoked at their stated meetings, since time i_n] piemorial : and 
which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or 
used on common occasions. I received it with becoming 
reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding on its 
cover the jdentic/il painting of which I was in quest ! There 



15i THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and 
beft)re the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at 
table, in full reve l ; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and 
force, with Avhich the portraits of renowned generals and com- 
modores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of 
posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the 
cunning limnex ^had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal 
and FalstafT on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly oblit- 
erated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard 
Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head 
Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beautified by his suc- 
cessor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a fiithful descrip- 
tion of this august and venerable relic ; and I question whether 
the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Poman shield, or the 
Knights of the Pound Table the long-sought san-greal, with 
more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. Dame 
Honey ball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, 
put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged 
to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. 
It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wy- 
thers, knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great 
value, being considered very " antyke." This last opinion was 
strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and 
oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal 
descendant from the valiant Bardolph, He suddenly roused 
from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, casting a know- 
ing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't 
ache now that made that there article ! " 



TIIK BOAk's head TAVERXj F.ASTCIIEAPo 155 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but 
there is notliirg sharpens the ap prehension so much as anti- 
(piarian research ; for I immediately perceived that this could 
be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which 
FalstafFmade liis loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly; 
and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the 
regalia of her domains , as a testimony o f that solemn contract.* 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how tho 
goblet had been handed down from generation t o generation. 
She also entertained me with many particulars concerning tho 
Avorthy vesti-ymcn who have seated themselves thus quietly 
on the stools of the ancien^iroystersl of Eastcheap, anJ, like 
so "'""Y jT'^ryii-np^-'fo^-^^v^ "fitfrn. (louds of smoke in honor of 
Shakspeare. Those I forbear to relate, lest my readers should 
not be as curious in these matters as myself Suffice it to say, 
the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that 
FalstafT and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. 
Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him 
still extant among tho oldest frequenters of the JMason's 
Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their fore- 
fathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop 
stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry 
jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which 
he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

* Thou didst swear to mc upon a parcel-gilt (joblef, sitting in my 
Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on ^Ycdnesday, 
in Whitsunwcck, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father 
to a singing man at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was 
washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. 
Canst thou deny it? — Henry IV., Part 2. 




156 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further 
inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. Plis 
head had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved 
from the very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could 
not see a tear trembling in his eye, j^et a moisture was evi- 
dently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the 
direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and 
found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roast- 
ing in dripping richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. 
My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand 
a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with 
a hearty benediction on him, Dame noneyball,and the Parish 
Club of Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting my shabby, but sen- 
tentious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of this inter- 
esting research, for wliich, if it prove too short and unsatis- 
factory, I can only plead my inexjjerience in this branch of 
literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am 
aware that a more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard 
would have swelled the materials I have touched upon, to a 
good merchantable bulk ; comprising the biographies of 
William Walworth, Jiick Straw, and Robert Preston ; some 
notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the history 
of Eastcheap, great and little ; private anecdotes of Dame 
Honey ball, and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even 
mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of 
lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely 
lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) — the whole enlivened by the 



THE EOAE'S HEAD TAVKKN, KASTCHEAP. 



157 



riots of "Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of 
London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future 
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, 
and the " parcel-gilt goblet," "which I have thus brought to 
light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful 
of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 




THE MUTABILITY OF LITEEATURE, 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all bencatli the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays. 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

DeDMMOND op IlAWTnOKNDEN. 

rilHERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which 
-*- we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek 
some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and 
build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was 
loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, 
enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt 
to dignify with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an 
interruption of madcap boys from Westminster School, play- 
ing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the 
place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs 
echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from 
their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of 
the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to 
the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 159 

the crumbling sculpture of former ages, \Yhich opened upon a 
gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber 
in -which doomsday book is deposited. Just within the pas- 
sage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a 
key ; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, 
as if seldon^ used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, 
and, passing through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported 
by massive joists of old English oak. It Avas soberly lighted 
by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from' the 
floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the 
cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of 
the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the 
hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carv'ed 
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical 
writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the 
centre of the library Avas a solitary table with two or three 
books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched 
by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive 
walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world, 
i could only hear now and then the shouts of the school-boys 
faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell 
tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of the 
abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter 
and fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased to toll, 
and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table 
in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I 



160 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet 
of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around 
upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged 
on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, 
I could not but consider the library a kind of literary cata- 
comb, where authors, like mummies, arc piously entombed, 
and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ' 
how many weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How 
have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells 
and cloisters ; shut themselves up from the face of man, and 
the still more l)lessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves 
to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? 
to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title of their 
works read now and then in a fatui-3 age, by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another 
age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount 
of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a 
local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled 
among these towers, fdling the ear for a moment — lingering 
transiently in echo — and then j^assing away like a thing that 
was not ! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- 
profitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, I 
was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I 
accidentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonish- 
ment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awak- 
ing from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem ; and at length 
began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 161 

being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider 
had woven across it ; and having probably contracted a cold 
from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In 
a short time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon 
found it an exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its 
language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its 
pronunciation, what, in the present day, would be deemed 
barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render 
it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other 
such commonplace topics of literary repining, and com^ 
plained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than 
two centuries. That the dean only looked now and then into 
the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled 
with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their 
shelves. " What a plague do they mean," said the little 
quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, 
" what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand 
volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old 
vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be 
looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written 
to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule 
passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least 
once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once 
in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among 
us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

'■ Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not aware 
how much better you are ofl" than most books of your gene- 
ration. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are 



162 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

like th3 treasured remains of those saints and monarehs, which 
lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of 
} our contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of 
nature, have long since returned to dust.'' 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking 
big, " I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms 
of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
like other great contemporary works ; but here have I been 
clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have 
silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the 
very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance 
given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before 
I go to pieces," 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are 
now well stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries 
can be at present in existence ; and those few owe their lon- 
gevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; Avhieh, 
suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might 
more properly and gratefully have compared to those infirm- 
aries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of 
the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no 
employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-noth- 
ing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circu- 
lation — where do we meet with their works? what do we 
hear of Eobert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could have 
toiled harder than he for immortality. lie is said to have 
Written nearly two hundred volumes. lie built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 1G3 

pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
scattered in various libraries, Avherc they are scarcely disturbed 
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cam- 
brensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and 
poet ? lie declined two bishopries, that he might shut him- 
self up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inquires 
after his labors. Wliat of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides 
a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt 
of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting 
him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three 
great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag- 
ment ; the otlicrs are known only to a few of the curious in 
literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, 
the Franciscan, who acquired the name of tlie tree of life '? 
Of William of !Malmsbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of 
Benedict of Peterborough; — of John Ilanvill of St. Al- 
bans ; — of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how 
old do you thinlc me 1 You are talking of authors that lived 
long before my time, and Avrote either in Latin or French, so 
that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to 
be forgotten ;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the 
press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in 
my own native tongue, at a time when the language had 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittcs had great delyte 
to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben 
some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the French- 
men have as good a fantasye as Ave liave in hcarying of Frenchmen's 
EngUshe. — C'haucer^s Testament of Love. 



161: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

become fixed ; and indeed I was considered a model of pm e 
and elegant English."' 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty 
in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said 1, " for mistaking your age ; but 
it matters little : almost all the writers of your time have 
likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publica- 
tions are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The 
purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your 
claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of 
authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy 
Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of 
inongrel Saxon.* Even now many talk of Spenser's ' well 
of pure English undefilcd,' as if the language ever sprang from 
a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence 
of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and inter- 
mixtures. It is this which has made English literature so 
extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. 
Unless thought can be committed to something more perma- 
nent and unchangeable than such a medium, even thought 
must share the fate of every thing else, and fall into decay. 
This should serve as a check upon the vanity and exultation 

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by deli- 
gent travell of GefFry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Rich- 
ard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, 
monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, not- 
withstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the 
time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John 
Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished 
the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal commen- 
dation." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATUEE. 1G5 

of the most popular Avriter. lie finds the language in -which 
he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to 
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks 
back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the 
favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits 
can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. 
And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, 
■\\ hich, however it may be admired in its day, and held up as 
a model of purity, will in the course of years grow anti- 
quated and obsolete ; until it shall become almost as unintel- 
ligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of 
those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. 
I declare," added I, Avith some emotion, " when I contemplate 
a modern library, filled with new works, in all the bravery 
of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and 
weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, 
pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected 
that in one hundred years not one of them would be in exist- 
ence ! " 

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I see how 
it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good 
old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir 
Philip Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror 
for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled 
John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers 
Mhom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so 
\vhen you were last in circulation, have long since had their 
day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality of which 



IGO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, 
is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns 
of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville lias 
strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings 
were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated 
by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole 
crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have 
likewise gone down, with all their writings and their con- 
troversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has 
rolled over Ihem, until they are buried so deep, that it is only 
now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of 
antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratificatiou of the 
curious. 

" For my part," I continued," I consider this mutability 
of lansuao'e a wise precauticni of Providence for the benefit of 
the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason 
from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes 
of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for 
a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their 
successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature 
Avould be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would 
ffroan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface 
become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of 
genius and learning decline, and make way for subseciuent 

* Live ever swcete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and 
the golden-pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world 
that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, tlie breath of the 
muses, the honey-bee of the dahityest flowers of witt and arte, the. pith 
of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the 
tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the 
paragon of excellency in print. — Ilarvcy Pierce's Supererogation. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEKATUEE. 1G7 

productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fiide 
away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted 
time ; otherwise, the creative powers of genius would over, 
stock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered 
in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there w'cre 
some restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works had 
to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious 
operation ; they were written either on parchment, which was 
expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for 
another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely per- 
ishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, 
pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their 
cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and 
costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these 
circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have 
not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the foun- 
tains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius 
drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and tlio 
press have put an end to all these restraints. They ha^e 
made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour 
itself into print, and difllisc itself over the whole intellectual 
world. The consequences arc alarming. The stream of 
literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a 
river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or 
six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but 
what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, con- 
taining three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of 
authors at the same time busy ; and the press going on with 
fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the 
number ? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break 



1G8 TIIK SKETCH-EOOK. 

out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become 
so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation 
of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. 
It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles on3 
of those salutary checks on population spoken of by econo- 
mists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given 
to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be 
in vain ; let criticism do what it may, -writers will write, 
printers will print, and the world will inevitably be over- 
stocked with good books. It Avill soon be the employment 
of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of 
passable inforination, at the present day, reads scarcely any 
thing but reviews ; and before long a man of erudition will be 
little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I per- 
ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of 
an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. 
His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. 
The learned shook their heads at him, for ho was a poor half- 
educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of 
Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for deer- 
stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he 
soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man 
that the literature of his period has experienced a duration 
beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise 
authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability 
of language, because they have rooted themselves in the 
^mchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 169 

trees that we sometimes sec on the banks of a stream ; which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere 
surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the 
ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, 
and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 
case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroach- 
ments of time, retaining in modern use the language and 
literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indiffer- 
ent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But 
even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, 
and his whole forni is overrun by a profusion of commenta- 
tors, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the 
noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that 
had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu- 
lency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover 
breath, " mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the 
literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer- 
stealer ! by a man without learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a 
poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished 
in a less polished age, I determined, nevertheless, not to give 
up my point. 

" Yes," resunled I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers 

he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write 

from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart 

will always understiMid him. lie is the faithful portrayer of 

8 



lYO THE SKKTClI-BOOIt. 

nature, Avhose features are always the same, and always 
interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; 
their pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts 
expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every 
thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by 
every thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing 
before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
ai'oma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the 
wealth of the language — its family jewels, Avhich are thus 
transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may 
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be 
renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and 
intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look 
back over the long reach of literary history. What vast 
valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and aca- 
demical controversies ! what bogs of theogieal speculations ! 
what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only 
do we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like 
beacons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the pure 
light of poetical intelligence from age to age." * 

* Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, • 

The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEKATURE. 171 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused 
me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
silent ; the clasps AV'ere closed : and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two 
or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into 
further conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this ram- 
bling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never 
to this moment been able to discover. 

As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. • 



ETRAL FUNEEALS. 

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs thut have on them cold dew o' the night; 

Are stre wings fltt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
These horblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbelinb. 

A MONG the boautifiil and simplc-lieartcd customs of rural 
■^^ life -which still linger in some parts of England, are those 
of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at 
the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, arc the re- 
mains of some of the rites of the primitive church ; hut they 
are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the 
Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writ- 
ers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered 
affection, oriijinatina; long before art had tasked itself to mod- 
ulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They 
rffc now only to be met Avith in the most distant and retired 
places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not 
been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and in- 
teresting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in 
one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 



KUKAL FUNEKALS. 173 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
"Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed 
in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a 
female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of 
white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl near- 
est in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up 
in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. 
These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in im- 
itation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of 
Avhite gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity 
of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has re- 
ceived in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to 
the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of 
triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have finished 
their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I 
am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, 
particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though 
melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely 
country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swell, 
ing from a distance, and to sec the train slowly moving along 
the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 

Thy harmlesse and iinhaunted ground, 

And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill 

And other flowers lay upon 

The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Hf.rrick. 



174 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the 
passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such specta- 
cles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep 
into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, 
uncovered, to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the 
rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few- 
hundred yards, and, having paid this tribute of respect to the 
deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the Eng- 
lish character, and gives it some of its most touching and en- 
nobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, 
and in the solicitude shown by the common people for an 
honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, what- 
ever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some 
little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Over- 
bury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, 
" thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the 
spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her wind- 
ingsheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of 
a nation, continually advert to this fynd solicitude about the 
grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletch- 
er, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the 
capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl : 

When she sees a banlc 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
. Her servants, what a pretty place it were 

To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custoni of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the 



RURAL FUNERALS. 175 

turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and 
flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his 
Sylva, " Avith flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the 
life of man, which has been compared in Holy Si-riptures to 
those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonor, 
rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely 
rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the church- 
yards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and 
I recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which 
lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been 
told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a 
young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had 
their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was 
interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might 
be seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, others 
rpiite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by 
holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves 
had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb- 
stones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- 
rangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in it 
truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the 
lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This 
sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with 
thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hiero- 
glyphics of our fugiti\'e, umbratile, anxious, and transitory 
life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet with- 



176 THE SKETCH-EOOK. 

oiit its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the 
flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often 
a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, 
or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old 
poem, entitled " Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies 
the decorations he intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundry-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

ril deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, Ave are told, Nvas planted at the grave of 
A virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token 
of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons 
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. 
The red rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such 
as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general 
were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us 
that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near 
his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens 
yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweet- 
hearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in 



EUEAL FUNERALS. 177 

his Britannia : *' Here is also a certain custom, observed time 
out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially 
by the young men and maids who have lost their loves ; so 
that this church-yard is now full of them." 
I When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em- 
blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew 
and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the 
most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stan- 
ley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cpyresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of 
females who had been disappointed in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine 
and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity 
of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which per 



178 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

vaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was 
an especial precaution that none hut sweet-scented evergreens 
and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to 
have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the 
mind froin brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortal- 
ity, and to associate the memory of the deceased with the 
most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dis- 
mal process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its 
kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contem- 
plating ; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, 
with those refined associations which it awakened when 
blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the 
earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Ilerrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours fortli a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a man- 
ner embalms the dead in the recollections of the livinj;. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

if if ^ * Hf it 

May all sine maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 



KUKAL FUNEKALS. 179 

I might crowd my pages witli extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more preva- 
lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have 
already quoted more thaii is necessary. I cannnot however 
refrain from giving a passage from Shakspeare, even though 
it should appear trite ; which illustrates the emblematical 
meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the 
same time possesses that magic of language and apposite- 
ness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most 
costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while 
the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection 
is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under 
the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold 
conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly 
elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, and 
exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. 
But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks 
of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite 
they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they 
have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying 



180 TIIIC SKETCH-BOOK. 

emotions, and to supply its most affecting and picturesque 
usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few 
pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English fu- 
neral in town. It is made uj) of show and gloomy parade ; 
mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and 
hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief " There 
is a grave digged,'' says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn 
mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the 
dales are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remem- 
bered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city 
is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates 
and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very 
scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctu- 
ating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. 
The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, 
and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. 
The passing bell tolls its knell in every car ; it steals with 
its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all 
the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also per- 
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once en- 
joyed them ; who Avas the companion of our most retired 
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea 
is associated with every charm of nature; we hear his voice 
in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit 
haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of him 
in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of 
the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remember 
his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober eve- 
ning returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, 



EUKAL FUNERALS. 181 

we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and 
sweot-souled nielanch( )ly . 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 

And mouni'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately 
in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by 
the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sab- 
bath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and 
most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and pres- 
ent loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of 
the past. In North "Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sundays 
after the interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing 
and planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on 
Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season 
brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to 
mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest rela- 
tives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed; 
and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an in- 
sult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as 
it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest ofhces of love. 
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the 
divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the in- 
stinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 



182 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence 
of its object; but the love that is seated in the soul can live 
on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense lan- 
guish and decline with the charms which excited them, and 
turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the 
tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, 
purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy 
flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to 
heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we con- 
sider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and 
brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would 
willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from 
her arms, though every recollection is a pang 1 Where is the 
child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, 
though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the 
hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? 
Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her 
he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in 
the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that 
must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the love which sur- 
vives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. 
If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the 
overwhelming bui'st of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of 
recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is 
softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in 
the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow 
from the heart 1 Though it may sometimes throw a passing 



KUEAL FUNERALS. 183 

cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a di;eper sad- 
ness over the hour of gloom, yet ^vho \vouhl exchange it oven 
for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there 
is a voice from tlie tomb sweeter tlian song. There is a re- 
membrance of the dead to which we turn even from the 
charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — It buries 
every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resent- 
ment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond re- 
grets and tender recollections. AVho can look down upon 
the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious 
throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor hand- 
ful of earth that lies mouldering bfore him. 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- 
tation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- 
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily inter- 
course of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the tender- 
ness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The 
bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance 
— its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of ex- 
piring love ! ■ The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh ! how thrilL 
ing ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, 
strutrsliniT in death to crivc one more assurance of affection ! 
The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even 
from the threshold of existence I 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that de- 
parted being, who can never — never — never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition ! 



184 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an afTer^tionate 
parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond 
bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to 
doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art 
a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, 
the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a 
lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true 
heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; — then 
be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every 
ungentle action, Avill come thronging back upon thy memory, 
and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou 
wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter 
the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, 
more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties 
of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou 
canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but 
take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction 
over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and afiection- 
ate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peas- 
antry, but merely to fuinish a few hints and quotations illus- 
trative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to 
another paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled 
insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an 
apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, aftei 



EUKAL FUNERALS. 185 

they have been amply and learnedly investigated in other 
works. 

I must observe, also, that I am Avell aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- 
tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more 
general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; 
but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into 
affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells 
of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, 
with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse plants ; and 
that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers 
of the season. He gives a casual picture of fdial piety, which 
I cannot but transcribe ; for I trust it is as usefid as it is de- 
lightfid, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " "When 
I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iflland to 
the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much 
real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was 
attracted by a young woman, Avho stood on a mound of earth, 
newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from 
the feet of the passing crowd. It was th^ tomb of her parent ; 
and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monu- 
ment more striking than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that 
I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was 
at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the 
Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once tho 
capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and 
the Lake, and accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. 
The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred 
fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out 



186 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its 
territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the 
rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a 
purer age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground ad- 
joining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of 
wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely exe- 
cuted, but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. 
On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, 
others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with in- 
terest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical 
description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offer- 
ings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
and more populous place, I should have suspected them to 
have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from 
books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; 
there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I 
question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, Avhile he 
was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that 
he was fulfdling one of the most flinciful rites of poetical de- 
votion, and that he was practically a poet. 




THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine case in mine inn ? 

Falstaft. 

"TVURING a journey that I once made through the Nether. 
-*-^ lands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme (T Or, the 
principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the 
hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a soli- 
tary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The weather 
Avas chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a groat gloomy 
dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect 
before me of a long dull evening, without any visible means 
of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested some- 
thing to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his 
household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same 
language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat 
dozing over one of the latter, reading old and stale criticisms, 
my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter 
which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that 
has travelled on the continent must know how flivorite a resort 
the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior 
order of travellers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of 
weather, when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I 
threw aside the newspaper, and explored my Avay to the 



188 ' THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to he 
so merrry. It was composed partly of travellers who had 
arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the 
usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated 
round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken 
for an altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among 
which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large 
lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing 
out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays 
partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away 
into remote corners ; except where they settled in mellow 
radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected 
back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst 
of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden 
pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart sus- 
pended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most 
of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their 
mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy 
Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was 
giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each of which 
there was one of those bursts of honest uncerem.onious laughter, 
in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an 
inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened 
to a variety of traveller's tales, some A'ery extravagant, and 
most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my 
treacherous memory except one, which I will endeavor to 



THE INN KITCHEN. 189 

relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the 
manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and appear- 
ance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had 
the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished 
green travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and 
a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. 
He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was 
light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap 
stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than 
once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; 
and paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which 
times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the 
buxom kitchen-maid. 

I Avish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling 
in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a 
curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine icinne de 
mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head 
cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, 
as he related the following story. 



A^ 



ej9 



THE SPECTEE BEIDEGEOOM. 

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 

He that supper for is dight, 

lie lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Geay-Stkbl. 

ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, 
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies 
not for from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there 
stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von 
Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
among beech trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its 
old watch-tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look 
down upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzen- 
ellenbogen,f and inherited the relics of the property, and all 

* The erudite reader, well veraed ''ii good-for-nothing lore, ■will per- 
ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by 
a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at 
Paris. 

f i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very 
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in 
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 



THE SPECTKE BRIDEGKOOM. 191 

the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition 
of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, 
yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former 
state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in 
general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched 
like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more 
convenient residences in the valleys : still the baron remained 
proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with hered- 
itary inveteracy, all the old family feuds ; so that he was on 
ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of 
disputes that had happened between their great-great-grand- 
fathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, when 
she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
£rodigy^; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All 
the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father 
that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and 
who should know better than they ? She had, moreover, been 
brought up with great care under the superintendence of two 
maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at 
one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the 
branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine 
lady. ^ Under their instructions she became a miracle of accom- 
plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could em- 
broider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the 
saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in then" 
countenances, that they looked like so many souk in purga tory . 
She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her 
way through several church legends, and almost all the chivalric 
wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable 



192 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

proficiency in writing ; could sign her own name without miss- 
ing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it with- 
out spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for- 
nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in the 
most Q;bstruse dancing of the dav ; played a number of airs on 
the harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads of the 
Minnie-lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and cocjuettes_iii 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; 
for there is no duen na so rigidly prudent, and inexorably 
decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suf- 
fered out of their sight ; never went beyond the domains of 
the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched ; had 
continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and im- 
plicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! — she was taught 
to hold them at such a distance, und in such absolute distrust, 
that, unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a 
glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if 
he were even dying at her feet. 

The good efTccts of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others Mcre wasting their sweetness in the glare of 
the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by 
every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely 
womanhood under the protection of those immaculate spin< 
sters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. 
Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and 
vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the world 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 192 

mifrht go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could 
happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might bo 
provided with children, his household was by no means a 
small one ; f<jr Providence had enriched him with abundance 
of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate 
disposition common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully 
attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion to 
come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals 
were commemorated by these good people at the baron's 
expense ; and when they were filled with good cheer, they 
would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as 
these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfliction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell 
long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits looked 
grimly down from the walls around, and he found no listeners 
equal to those who feJ at his expense. Pie was much given 
to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those supernatural 
tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany 
abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own : 
they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and 
mouth, and never fiiiled to be astonished, even though repeated 
f(jr the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Land- 
sliort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his 
little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion 
that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost 
9 



K 



194: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the 
baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between 
the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity 
of their houses by the marriage of their children. The pre- 
liminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The 
young people were betrothed without seeing each other ; and 
the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army 
for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the baron's 
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, 
mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to 
arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The Mr bride had been decked out with 
uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, 
and quarrelled the Avhole morning about every article of her 
dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest 
to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could 
desire ; and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of 
her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, 
all betrayed the soft tumult that was gf>ing on in her little 
heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her ; for 
maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in .affairs of this 
nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how 
to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive 
the expected lover. 



I rp' 





rHE SPECTRE BRIDEGEOoii. 19^ 



The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, 
in truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a fuming 
bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the 
world was in a hurry. He M'orried from top to bottom of 
the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called 
the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent ; 
and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and 
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 
had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was 
crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole 
oceans of Rhein-ioein and Fernc-ioein ; and even the great 
Ileidelburg tun had been laid under contribution. Every 
thing was ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
Saus imd Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality — 
but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled 
after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays 
upon the rich forest of the Odcnwald, now just gleamed 
along the summits of the mountains, j The baron mounted 
the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a 
distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once he 
thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating 
from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A 
number of horsemen were seen fir below, slowly advancing 
along the road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot 
of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direc- 
tion. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to 
flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer t;) 
the view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and 
then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 



196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odemvald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly_j)ui:suing 
his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels 
toward matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble 
and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is 
waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg, a youthful 
companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on 
the frontie rs ; Herman Von Starkenfliust, one of the stoutest 
hands, and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was 
now returning from the army. , His father's castle was not far 
distant from the old furtress of Landshort, although an hered- 
itary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each 
other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the 
count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a 
young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he 
had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, 
that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtz- 
burg at an early hour, the count having given directions for 
his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They ^^figuilgd their wayfiiring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures ; but the count Avas apt to be 
a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of 
his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGKOOM. 197^ 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and 
thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of 
Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were particu- 
larly immerous, fr<^)m the hordes of disbanded soldiers wander- 
ing about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, 
therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these 
stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended them- 
selves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the 
count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them 
the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a 
mortal wound. lie was slowly and carefully conveyed back 
to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a 
neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in adminis- 
tering to botli soul and body ; but half of his skill was super- 
fluous ; the moments of the unfortunate count were num- 
bered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause 
of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though 
not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most pmictil- 
ious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission 
should be speedily and courteously executed. " Unless this is 
done," said he, "I sh»ll not sleep quietly in my grave!" 
lie repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A 
request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation, 
/otarkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness ; promised 
faithfully to execute liis wish, and gave him liis hand in solemn 
pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but 




198 THE sketch-book:. 

soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — his engage- 
ments — his plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might 
ride to the castle of Landshort ; and expired in the fancied act 
of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awk- 
ward mission he had undertaken. His heart vras heavy, and 
his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an unbid- 
den guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity 
with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain 
whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed 
beauty of Katzeneilenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the 
world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there 
was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that 
made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements 
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solem- 
nities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of 
AVurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives ; and the 
mourning retinue of the count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzeneilenbogen, who were impatient for tlieir 
guest, and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little 
baron, whom wc left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no gu#st arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be post- 
poned. The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an 
agony ; and the whole household had the look of a garrison 
that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged 



THE SPECTRE BKIDEGKOOM. 199 

reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence 
of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the 
gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another 
long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, 
and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron 
hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a 
black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron 
was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, 
solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruflled, and he 
felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the 
important occasion, and the important family with which he 
was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the 
conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience which 
had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compli- 
ments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself 
upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, 
once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so 
he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time 
the baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner 
court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to speak, 
when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the 
female part of the fiimily, leading forth the shrinking and 
blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one 



200 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

entranced ; it seemed as if liis whole soul beamed forth \n 
the gaze, and rested npon that lovely form. One of the 
maiden aunts "whispered something in her ear ; she made 
an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; 
gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger ; and was cast 
again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was 
a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of 
the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. 
It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 
predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with 
so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time 
for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all par- 
ticular conversation until the morning, and led the way to 
the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the 
house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had 
gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splint- 
ered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with 
the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the 
tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among cross-bows and 
battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately 
over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low 
tone that could not be overheard — for the language of love is 
never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot 
catch the softest whisper of the lover 1 There was a mingled 



tiiat t 



THE SPECTEE BRIDEGROOM. 20l 

tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have 
a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and 
■went as she listened M'ith deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, 
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, 
and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident 
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, 
who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared 
that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

he feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend 
upon light purses and mountain air. The baron told his best 
and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or 
with such great effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his 
auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if any thing iace- 
tious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. 
The baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified 
to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, 
however, by a bumper of excellent ITockheimer ; and even a 
dull jolce, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, 
is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and 
keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar 
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that 
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song 
or two roared out by a poor, but n^erry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this re velry , the stranger guest maintained a 
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance 
assumed a deeper cast of dejectio n as the evening advanced ; 
9* 



202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed 
only to render him the more Qielan^hiily- t At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- 
less wandering of the eye that, bespoke a mind but ill at ease. 
His conversations with the bride became more and more 
earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over 
the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her 
tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom, of the 
bridegroom ; their spirits were in fec , ]; e d ; whispers and glances 
were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes 
of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less fre- 
quent ; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which 
were at length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural 
legends. One dismal story produced another still more dis- 
mal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into 
hys terics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried 
away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful story, which has since been 
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the 
world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- 
tion. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as 
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment 
the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a 
solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. 
The baron was perfectly thunder-struck, 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight 'i why, 



203 

every thing was prepared for his reception ; a chanaber Avas 
ready for him if he wislicd to retire." 

The stranger shook his liead mournfully and mysteriously ; 
" I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night ! " 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which 
it was uttered, that made the baron's lieart misgive him ; but 
he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at 
every offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked 
slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely 
petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her 
eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the 
castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and 
snorting with impatience. — When they had reached the 
portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, 
the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow 
tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more so- 
pulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you 
the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispo naaJbla 
engagement — " 

" Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some one in 
your place ? " 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — 
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

" Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, " but not until 
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

" No ! no I " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
" my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms 



204 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
— my body lies at Wurtz])urg — at midnight I am to be 
buried — the grave is waiting fur mc — I must keep my ap- 
pointment ! " 

lie sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the 
whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- 
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- 
right, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a 
spectre. It Avas the opinion of some, that this might be the 
wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural 
beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so 
grievously harassed since time imme morial. One of the poor 
relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive 
evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess 
of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a person- 
age. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the 
whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon 
him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to ab- 
jure^is heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith 
of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of 
regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young 
count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had 
come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him 



THE SPECTRE BKIDEGKOOM. 205 

in his distress. Tliey wandered about the courts, or collected 
in croups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their 
shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer 
than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, 
by way of keeping up their'fepirits. But the situation of the 
widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a hus- 
band before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! 
if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must 
have been the living man. She filled the house with lamenta- 
tions. 



^^ On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had 



L\ tioi 

r 

niretired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
* insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the 
best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very 
midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a 
small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams 
of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an as- 
pen-tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled 
midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the gar- 
den. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to 
the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the 
trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon 
the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre 
Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her 
ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and 
had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. 
When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most sooth- 
ing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to 



206 THE SKETCII-BCOK. 

the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of 
her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the sem- 
blance of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is 
but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, 
yet, where the substance is not to* be had, even that is consol- 
ing. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that cham- 
ber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as 
strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the 
consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone : but she 
drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the 
spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleas- 
ure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over 
ivhich the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigil_s. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the mar- 
vellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a fright- 
ful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as 
a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to 
herself for a whole week ; when she was suddenly absolved 
from all further restraint, by intelligence brought to the break- 
fast table one morning that the young lady was not to be 
found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in 
— the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 
was received, can only be imagined by those who have wit- 
nessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause 
among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a 
moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher ; Avhen 
the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her 



THE SPECTKE BRIDEGROOM. 207 

hands, and shrieked out, " The goblin ! the goblin ! she's car- 
ried away by the goblin." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
Two of the domestics corjioJiQrated the opinion, for they had 
heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on 
his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
were struck with the direful probability ; for events of the 
kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well 
authenticjitcd histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a mem- 
ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only 
daughter had either been rap t away to the grave, or he was 
to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a 
troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely 
bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men Avere 
ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen 
of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn on his 
jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his 
steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was 
brought to a pause by a new apparition, A lady was seen 
approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a 
cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang 
from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, embraced his 
knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion — the 
Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. lie looked 
at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the 
evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully im- 



208 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pi-oved in his appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. 
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly 
symmetrj,. lie was no longer pale and melancholy. His 
fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy 
rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no gob- 
lin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He 
related his adventure with the young count. He told how he 
had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, 
but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in 
every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride 
had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours 
near her, he had t acitly suffered the mistake to continue. 
How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a 
decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested 
his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the 
family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the 
garden beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — had 
won — had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, had wed- 
ded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and de- 
voutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daugh- 
ter ; h? had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still 
alive ; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, 
thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, 
it must be acknowledged, that did not exactl y accord with his 
notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed 
upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 20D 

present, who liad served in the wars, assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was 
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the 
castle were rcsimied. The poor relations overwhelmed this 
new membei' of the family with loving kindness ; he was so 
gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were 
somewhat scizndalized that their system of strict seclusion, 
and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but at- 
tributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows 
grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her 
marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had 
ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ;. but the niece seemed 
perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and 
blood — and so the story ends." 



>K 



•& © !• 



WESTMINSTEE ABBEY. 



?o famous Westminster how there resort^ 
Living in brasse or stoney monumenti 
?he princes and the worthies of all sorta; 
. )oe not I see refornide nobilitie, 
IVithout contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
Lnd looke upon offenselesse majesty/ 
faked of pomp or earthly domination^ 
^nd how a play-game of a painted stona 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprite^ 
W^home all the world which late they stood 3j 
ould not content or quench their appetitjj 
ifc is a frost of cold felicitie^''^ 
nd death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
Cni^iRT(;)y,ij-^yQ'fl F.PI GCAMB 



ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning 
and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over 
the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling 
about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial 
to the season in the mournful- magnificence of the old pile; 
and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into 
the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades 
of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost sub- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 211 

tcrraiican look, being dimly lighted m one part by circular 
perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue 
1 had a distant view of the I'cloistersi, with the figure of an old 
verger , in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, 
and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. 
The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic, 
remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. 
The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion 
of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, 
and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered 
()\er the inscriptions of the mural_ monuments, and obscured 
the death's heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp 
touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 
arches ; the roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their 
leafy beauty ; every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapi- 
dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing 
in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass 
in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage 
with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, 
the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud ; 
and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into 
the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavor- 
ing to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, whicli 
formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted 
to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away 
by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies 



212 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely 
effaced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt been re- 
newed in later times. (Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus 
Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I re- 
mained some little Avhile, musing over these casual relics of 
antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, 
telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had per- 
ished ; teaching no moral put the futility of that pride Avhich 
hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an in- 
scription. A little longer, and even these faint records will 
be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memo- 
rial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these grave-stones, 
I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating 
from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. 
It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time 
sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, 
which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 
I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the build- 
ing breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of 
the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered col- 
umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them 
to such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their 
bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own 
handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice 
produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously 
and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed 
silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the 
walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more 
sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 213 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- 
ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated 
bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history 
With their deeds, and the earth with their renown. 
And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of hu- 
man ambition, to see how they are crowded together and 
jostled in the dust ; what parsim ony is observed in doling 
out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and 
how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to 
catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forget- 
fulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to 
occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 
monuments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary 
men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare 
and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but 
the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere 
inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these me- 
morials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling 
takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and 
the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of 
friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of 
companionship between the author and the reader. Other 
men are known to posterity only through the medium of his- 
tory, which is continually growing fliint and obscure : but the 



214 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever 
new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more 
than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, 
and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he 
might the more intimately commune with distant minds and 
distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; f )r 
it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but 
by the diligent dispensatioii of pleasure. Well may posterity 
be gratefid to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, 
not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures 
of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of lau- 
gnafje. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toAvarda that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 
I wandered among what once Avere chapels, but which are now 
occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At 
every turn I met with some illustrious name ; or the cogni- 
zance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches 
glimpses of quaint effigies; some kneeling in niches, as if in 
devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands pious- 
ly pressed together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after 
battle ; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes 
and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this 
scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still 
and silent, it seems almost as if Ave were treading a mansion 
of that fabled city, Avhere every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone, 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on Avhich lay the effigy of 
a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one 



WESTMINSTEK ABBEY. 215 

arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon 
the breast : the face was almost covered by the morion ; the 
le^s were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been cn- 
•ra'^ed in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one 
of those military enthusiasts, Avho so strangely mingled re- 
ligion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting 
link between fact and fiction ; between the history and the 
fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the 
tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude 
armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with 
the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; and 
in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the 
legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous 
pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars 
for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times ut- 
terly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of cus- 
toms and manners v/^ith which ours have no affinity. They 
are like objects from some strange and distant land, of which 
tve have no certain knowledge, and about which all our con- 
ceptions are vague and visionary. There is something ex- 
tremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, 
extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of 
the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more im- 
pressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over- 
wrought conceits, and alle^.Qri.cal, groups, which abound on 
modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the su- 
periority of many of the old sepulchral inscripti ons. There 
Avas a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, 
and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph 
that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and hon- 



216 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

orable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that 
. " all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
iy' In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than 
sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing 
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting 
forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he 
launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her 
affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic 
effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terri- 
ble truth and spirit ; we almost flmcy we hear the gibbering 
yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the 
spectre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death with 
unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of 
those we love 1 The grave should be surrounded by every 
thing that might inspire tendei'ness and veneration for the 
dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, 
not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While Mandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy ex- 
istence from without occasionally reaches the ear ; — the rum- 
bling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the multitude ; 
or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is strik- 
ing with the deathlike repose around : and it has a strange 
effect upon the feelings, thus to hoar the surges of active life 
hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the 
sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and 



WESTlVnNSTER ABBEY. 217 

from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; 
the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and 
less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to even- 
ing prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their 
white surjilices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I 
stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A 
flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but 
magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately 
wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluc- 
tant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gor- 
geous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The 
very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the 
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its w^eight and den- 
sity, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of 
a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the 
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna- 
cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are 
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, 
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, 
with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this 
grand mau soleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his 
effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 



218 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen rail> 
ing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and 
aspiring ambition, close beside mementos, which show the 
dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, 
than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng 
and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the 
knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gor> 
geous banners that were once borne before them, my imagi- 
nation conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with 
the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with the splendor 
of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of 
many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had 
passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the 
place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which 
had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests 
among its friez es and jendants — sure signs of solitariness and 
desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered for and wide about the world ; 
some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant 
lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues o f courts and cab- 
inets ; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this 
mansion of shadowy honors : the melancholy reward of a 
monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min- 



WESTMINSTEK ABBEY. 219 

gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the 
sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her 
victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the 
day but some ejaculation^ of pity is uttered over the fate of the 
latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls 
of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of 
sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls arc stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing 
her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wander- 
ing, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving 
in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the 
choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The 
stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually pre- 
vailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the 
place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon 
the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 



!220 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do theii 
volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! 
With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and 
breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And now they rise in 
triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accord- 
ant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, 
and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of 
melody ; they soar aloft, and Avarble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. 
Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, com- 
pressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. 
What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping con- 
cords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fdls 
the vast pile, and seems to jar the very Avails — the ear is 
stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is wind- 
ing up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — 
the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this 
swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie Avhich a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of 
evening were gradually thickening round me ; the monu- 
ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the dis- 
tant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, 
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take 
from thence a general survey of this Avilderness of tombs. 
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 221 

around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. 
From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
finieral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded 
with tombs ; where warriors, prelates , courtiers and states- 
men, lie mouldering in their " beds of darkness." Close by 
me stood the great chair of coronation , rudely carved of oak, 
in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene 
seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to pro- 
duce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the be- 
ginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was 
literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would 
not one think that these incongruous mementos had been 
gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show 
it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect 
and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that 
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must 
lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be tram- 
pled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. /f.For, 
strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary . 
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them 
to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base 
minds, -which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the 
abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the 
living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken 
open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments ; 
the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious 
_KElizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless, 
''jN^ot a royal monument but bears some proof how false and 
fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; 
some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and insult — all 
more or less outraged and dishonored ! 




222 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 
twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble fig- 
ures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncer- 
tain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the 
cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a 
Verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange 
and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's 
walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the 
door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole 
building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, in- 
scriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recol- 
lection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the 
threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepul- 
chres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated 
homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of 
oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of death ; his great shad- 
owy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of 
human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the 
monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the im- 
mortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his 
pages ; we are too much ^igrossed by the story of the pres- 
ent, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be 
speediiy forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 223 

yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be sujgx- 
planj^qd by his successor of to-morrow, " Our fathers," says 
Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves in our short mem- 
ories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- 
vivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded 
with doubt and controversiy ; the inscription moulders from 
the tablet ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, 
arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their 
epitapha . but characters written in the dust ? What is the 
security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The 
remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the 
wind, and his empty .sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity 
of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses 
or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures 
wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above 
me from sharino; the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time 
must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, 
shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the 
sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through 
the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower 
— when the ^^airish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy 
mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; 
and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, 
as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his 
name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as 
a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.f 

* Sir T. Brovrn. j For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



/3 



i 



o \ 



CHKISTMAS. 



But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of ms good, gray 
i)Id head and beard left ? 'Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cey afteb Cheistmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

AVhen this old cap was new. 

Old Song, 

"VTOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell 
-^^ over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday 
customs and rural games of former times. They recall the 
pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, 
when as yet I only knew the world through books, and be. 
lieved it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring 
with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, 
perhaps, with equal fallacy . I am apt to think the world was 
more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret 
to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being 
gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by 
modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels* 



^ y CHKI8TMAS. 225 

of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, 
and partly lost in the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel, from^ which it has derived so 
many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about 
the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying 
their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, 
and, as it were, embalmi ng them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There 
is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our 
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of lialkaved and 
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this 
season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on 
the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral 
scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually 
increase in Jervor and pathos during the season of Advent, 
until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that 
brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander 
effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full 
choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which 
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continu- 
10* 



226 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ally operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children of 
a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, 
that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and 
loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuous- 
ness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its 
mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious 
blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but 
exquisite deliglit, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensa- 
tion. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled 
of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, 
we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- 
ness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days 
find darksome nights, while they circumscribe our Avanderings, 
shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us 
more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. 
Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympathies 
more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each 
other's society, and are brought more closely together by 
dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto 
heart ; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of 
loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bos- 
oms ; and which, when resorted to, furni'sh forth the pure 
element of domestic felicity. 



CHRISTMAS. 227 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer 
and sunshine through the room, and lights up each counte- 
nance in a kindlier Avelcome. Where does the honest face of 
hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — 
where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than 
by the winter fireside 1 and as the hollow blast of wintry 
wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what 
can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered 
security, with which we look round upon the comfortable 
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity 1 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life ; and they were, in former days, par- 
ticularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christ- 
mas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some 
antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque 
pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellow- 
ship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to 
throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought 
the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in 
one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls 
of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the 
Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the 
weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed 
the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly — ■ 
the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting 



228 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot 
huddled ronnd the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. 
It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited 
reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down 
society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less 
characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials 
of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris 
sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and 
dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full 
of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but 
heartily and vigorously ; times wild and picturesque, Avhich 
have furnished poetiy with its richest materials, and the drama 
with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. 
The world has become more worldly. There is more of dis- 
sipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into 
a broader, but a shallower stream ; and has forsaken many of 
those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through 
the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a 
more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of 
its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest 
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted 
antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have 
passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor- 
houses in which they were celebrated. They comported 
with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapes- 
tried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and 
gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 



CHRISTMAS. 229 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. 
The preparations inaking on every side for the social board 
that is again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents of 
good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and 
quickeners of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about 
houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these 
have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, 
and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the 
Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid- 
watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. 
As 1 have been awakened by them in that still and solemn 
hour, " when dee]3 sleep falleth upon man," I have li:-;tened 
with a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred 
and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another 
celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns every thing to melody and 
beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in 
the profound repose of the country, " telling the night watches 
to his feathery dames," was thought by the common ^'cople 
to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singcth all night long ; 
And then, they say, ro spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 



230 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, "what 
bosom can remain insensible 1 It is, indeed, the season of 
regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the 
fire of hospitality in the hall, but the^^enial flame of charity 
in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates 
the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze Avill sometimes 
waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim 
of the desert. 

Stranger and ^ojournei ^as I am in the land — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open 
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at 
the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming 
into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. 
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and 
every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with inno- 
cent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays 
of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can 
turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of hi3 
fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repinincf in his 
loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments 
of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants 
the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm 
of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH. 

Omne beiv6 

Sine poena 
Teinpus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old IIolTday School Sons. 

IN the preceding paper I have made some general observa- 
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am 
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas 
passed in the country ; i n perusing w hich I would most cour- 
teously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity. of wisdom, 
and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of 
folly, and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for 
a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day pre- 
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and 
out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the 
Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, 
and baskets and boxes of delicficies ; and hares hung dangling 
their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from dis- 
tant friends for the impending fesst. I had three fine rosy- 



232 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the 
buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the 
children of this country. They were returning home for the 
holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 
the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the ab- 
horred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were 
full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and house- 
hold, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were 
to give- their little sisters by the presents with which their 
pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forwafd with the greatest impatience was 
with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to 
their talk, possessed fif more virtues than any steed since the 
days of Bucephalus. IIow he could trot ! how he could run ! 
and then such leaps as he Avould take — there was not a hedge 
in the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the 
more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coach- 
man, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a largo 
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his 
coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and busi- 
ness, but he is particularly so during this season, having so 
many commissions to execute in consequence of the great in- 
terchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
vmacceptablc to my untra veiled readers, to have a sketch that 



THE STAGE COACH. 233 

may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of fanctionaries . who have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prev- 
alent throughout the _fraternity ; so that, -wherever an English 
stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one 
of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into 
every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimensions 
by frequent jjotations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still 
further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is 
buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. 
He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crcwned hat ; a huge roll of 
colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and 
tucked in at the bosom ; and has in summer time a large 
bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; the present, most 
probably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is 
commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small clothes 
extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots 
which reach about half w\ay up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he 
has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, 
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there 
is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which 
is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great con- 
sequence and consideration along the road ; has frequent con- 
ferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as 
a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a 
good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. 
The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, 



1J34: THE SKETCH-BOOK. \ 

he throws down the reins with something of an air, and aban- 
dons the cattle to the care of the hostler ; his duty being 
merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the 
box, his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, j 
and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most abso- | 
lute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an ad- 
miring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those 
nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run 
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of bat- 
tening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the 
tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure 
up his cai^t phrases ; echo his opinions about horsey and other,.^' 
topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his 
air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his 
back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks 
slang, and is an embryo Coaehey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the en- 
trance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and bandboxes to 
secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take 
leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, 
the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. 
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks 
a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; 
and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, 
hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd- 



/ I 



r 



j> 



THE STAGE COACH. | 235 



shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach 
rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and 
you have glances on every side of fresh country faces and 
blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos 
of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there 
for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the 
sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the 
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. 
The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the ve- 
hicle whirls by ; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the 
sooty spectre, in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, 
leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic 
engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through 
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as 
if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, 
poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circu- 
lation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers' and fruiterers' 
shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were 
stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order ; and 
the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, be- 
gan to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind 
an old writer's account of Christmas preparations : — " Now 
capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef 
and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude 
of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, 
sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or 
never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and 



236 THE 6KETCH-B00K. 

sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The 
country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, 
if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the 
contention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears 
the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the 
cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a 
shout from my little travelling companions. They had been 
looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, re- 
cognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, 
and now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! 
and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happy 
little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in livery, waiting for them ; he Avas accompanied by a 
superannuated pointer, and by the redoubt^ible Bantam, a lit- 
tle old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, 
who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dreaming of 
the bustling times that awaited him, 

I was pleased to sec the fondness with which the little fel- 
lows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the 
pointer ; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they 
should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off" they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering him with 
questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked 
after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether 



THE STAGE COACH. 23Y 

pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of 
those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor 
sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. 
We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, 
find on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in 
sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the 
forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw 
my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop- 
ing along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach win- 
dow, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove 
of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gate- 
vvay of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaminjj through a window. I entered, and ad- 
mired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, 
neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an Eng- 
lish inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with 
copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and 
there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of 
bacon, were suspended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made 
its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked 
in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one 
side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty 
viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seem- 
ed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were pre- 
paring to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking 
and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles 
beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards 
and forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling land- 



238 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lady ; but still seizing an occasional nnoment to exchange a 
flippant -word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's 
humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter : 

Kow trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up 
to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light 
of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I 
thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, 
when his eye caught mine. I Avas not mistaken; it was 
Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, 
with whom I had once travelled on the continent. Our 
meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old 
fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To dis- 
cuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossi- 
ble ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was 
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his fother's country seat, to which 
he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few 
miles distance. '■ It is better than eating a solitary Christmas 
dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you of a hearty 
welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." His rea- 

* Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



THE STAGE COACH. 



23'J 



soning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had 
seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made 
me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, there- 
fore, at once, with, his invitation : the chaise drove up to tlio 
door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family 
mansion of the Bracebridges. 




CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 

Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 

From the night-mare and the goblin, t 

That is hight good fellow Kubin ; ,' 

Keep it from all evil spirits, ' 

Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : * 



From curfew time 
To the next prime. 



Cartwkight. 



i 



TT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our 
chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post- 
boy smacked his Avhip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. ''He knows Avhere he is going," 
said my companion, laughing, ' ' and is eager to arrive in time 
for some of the merriment and good cheer of ttie servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the 
old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of 
old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what 
you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old 
English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend 
so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much 
into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of anciert 
rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, 
from early years, took honest Peacham * for his text-book, 

* Peacham's complete Gentleman, 1622. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 241 

instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that 
there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable 
than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and 
therefore passes the whole of his tiine on his estate. lie is a 
strenuous advocate for the I'evi /al of the old rural games and 
holiday observances, and is deeply read in the Mriters, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed 
his favorite range of reading is among the authors who flour- 
ished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, wrote and 
thought more like true Englishmen than any of their succes- 
sors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born 
a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its 
peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance 
from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable 
of all blessings to- an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging 
the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being rep- 
resentative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a 
great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much 
looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appeb 
lation of ' The Squire ; ' a title which has been accorded to 
the head of the family since time immemorial. I think it 
best to give you these hints about my worthy old flither, to 
prepare you for any eccentricities that might otherwise appear 
absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought 
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns 
that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. 
11 



242 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark 
fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garri- 
soned. An old woman immediately aj^peared at the gate. 
As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of 
a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique 
taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair 
peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came 
courtesying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing 
her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could 
not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and 
story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, Avhich was at no great distance, 
while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through 
a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which 
the moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep vault of 
a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight 
covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moon- 
beams caught a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might bo 
seen a thin transparent- vapor, stealing up from the low 
grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : — 
" ITow often," said ho, " have I scampered up this avenue, on 
returning home on school vacations ! How often have I 
played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial 
reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cher- 



CHKISTMA8 EVE. 243 

ished us in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in 
exacting our holidays, and having us around him on fomily 
festivals. lie used to direct and superintend our games Avith 
the strictness that some parents do the studies of their chil- 
dren, lie was very particular that we should play the old 
English games according to their original form ; and consult- 
ed old books for precedent and authority for every * merrie 
disport ;' yet I assure you there never was pedantry so de- 
lightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to 
make his children feel that home was the happiest place in 
the world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of 
the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's 
bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open- 
mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " 

cried Braccbridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of 
the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. 
One Aving was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone- 
shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun Avith ivy, from 



244 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes 
of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house 
was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having 
been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of 
his ancestors, who returned with that monai'ch at the Resto- 
ration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, 
raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with 
urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gen- 
tleman, I wa.5 told, was extremely careful to preserve this ob- 
solete finery in all its original state. lie admired this fashion 
in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and 
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imi- 
tation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with 
modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical 
government ; it smacked of the levelling system — I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the 
old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — Frank assured 
me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which 
he had ever heard his father meddle with politics ; and he be- 
lieved that he had got this notion from a member of parlia- 
ment who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire 
was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and 
formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by 
modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the 
building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser- 
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 245 

even encouraged by the squire, throughout the twelve days of 
Christmas, provided every thing was done conformably to 
ancient usage. Here "were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, 
bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule clog and Christmas 
candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white 
berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty 
housemaids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. 
On our arrival being announced, the squire came out to re- 
ceive us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young 
oflicer in the army, home on leave of absence ; the other an 
Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine 
healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly 
round an open florid countenance ; in which the physiogno- 
mist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or 
two, might discover a singular mixture of Avhim and benevo- 
lence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to 
change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous flimily 
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old 
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christ- 
mas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under 
it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked, the privilege ceases. 



846 thp: sketch-book. 

spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, 
and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were va- 
riously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others 
conversing around the fireplace ; at one end of the hall Avas a 
group of the young follcs, some nearly grown up, others of a 
more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, 
and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop 
of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy 
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy pro- 
jecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in ar- 
mor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung 
a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair 
of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as 
hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the 
corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and 
other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cum- 
brous workmanship of former days, though some articles of 
modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had 
been carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture 
of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of Avood, in the midst of 
which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending 
forth a vast volume of light and heat : this I understood was 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 247 

the Yule clog, which the squire was particular iu having 
brought iu and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to 
ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow chair, by the hosj^itable fireside of his an- 
cestors, and loolving around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 
very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his 
position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's 
flice, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again 
to sleep, confident of kindness and j>rotection. There is an 
emanation from the heart iu genuine hospitality which cannot 
be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger 

* The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in 
the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it 
lasted, there was great drinlving, singing, and telling of tales. Some- 
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule 
clog was to burn all night ; if it went out, it was considered a sign of 
ill luck. 

Ucrrick mentions it in one of his songs : — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes. 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions con- 
nected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the 
house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill 
omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away 
to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

at once at his ease. I had not been seated many mhiutes by 
the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I 
found myself as much at liomo as if I had been one of the 
family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed 
lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished beau- 
fet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread 
with substantial fare ; but the squire made his supper of fru- 
menty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich 
spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the ret- 
inue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, 
and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted 
him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old 
and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge al- 
ways addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. 
lie was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old 
bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his 
face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual 
bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an 
eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurk- 
ing waggery of expression that was irresistible. He was 
evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly 
jokes and inuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite mer' 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 249 

riment by harping iipoa old themes ; which, unfortunately, 
my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to 
enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep 
a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, 
in spite of her awe o<f the reproving looks of her mother, who 
sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of 
company, who laughed at every thing he said or did, and at 
every turn of his countenance, I could not wonder at it ; for 
he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. 
He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of 
his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-hand- 
kerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, 
that the young folks Avere ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. 
He revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet 
in its orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes 
another quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in England. He 
had a chirping buoyant disposition, always enjoying the pres- 
ent moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company 
prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating habits, 
with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He 
was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the geneal- 
ogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of Brace- 
bridge, which made him a great favorite with the old folks ; 
he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spin- 
sters, among whom he was habitually considered rather 
a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the 
11* 



250 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

children ; so that there was not a more popular being in the 
sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridgc. 
Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the squire, 
to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly 
delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, 
and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. 
We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for 
no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other 
beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master 
Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He 
bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of 
the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting 
that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a 
split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together. 

And when thoy appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and th«s weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, 
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be 
found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gen- 
tleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 



I 



CIIKISTMAS EVE. 251 

one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire him- 
self figured down several couple with a partner, Avith whom 
he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half 
a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of con- 
necting link between the old times and the new, and to be 
Avithal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, 
evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring 
to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces 
of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself 
with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her 
wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and de- 
feated all his sober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill- 
assorted matches to which antique gentlemen arc unfortunate- 
ly prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
knaveries with impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all 
madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the 
young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had 
noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a 
little kindness growing up between them ; and, indeed, the 
young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. 
He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young 
British officers of late years, had picked up various small ac 
complishments on the continent — he could talk French and 
Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — dance divine- 
ly ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what 



252 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could re. 
sist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude 
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began th 
little French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, 
exclaimed against having any thing on Christmas eve but good 
old English ; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his 
eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into 
another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave 
Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia." 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow- 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon docs slumber. 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



CIIEISTMAS EVK 253 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, fur so I found his partner was called; 
she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such applica- 
tion, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes 
east upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a 
beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, 
but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance; 
indeed, so great was her indifference, that she amused herself 
with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, 
and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in 
ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, 
on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule 
clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the 
season when '• no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been 
half tempted to steal front my room at midnight, and peep 
whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the 
hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the 
days of the giants. The room was panelled with cornices of 
heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were 
strangely intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits 
stared mournfully at mo from the walls. The bed was of 
rich, though fixded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a 
niche opposite a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed 
when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just 
below the window. I listened, and found it proceeded from a 

band, which I concluded to be the waits from some neighbor- 
11* 



254 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing village. They went round the house, playing under tha 
">vindows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more dis- 
tinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the 
casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. 
The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and 
seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened 
and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pil- 
low, and I fell asleep. 




CHRISTMAS DAY, 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
Thai sees December turn'd to May. 

* * * « « 4: # 

Why docs the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

TTTHEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
' ' events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing hut the identity of the ancient chamber convinced 
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I 
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, 
and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small 
voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of 
which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 

On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little foiry groups 
that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two 
girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. 



256 HIE SKKTCH-BOOK. 

They were going the rounds of the house, and inging at every 
chamber door ; but my sudden appearance A'ightened them 
into mute bashfuhiess. They remained for moment playing 
on their lips with their fingers, and now a,^d then stealing a 
shy glance from under their eyebrows, jntil, as if by one 
impulse, they scampered away, and as Vhey turned an angle 
of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their 
escape. 

Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine 
stream winding at the foot of it, and a track of park beyond, 
with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance 
was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys 
hanging over it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong 
relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was surround- 
ed with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer ; but the 
morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the pre- 
ceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered 
all the trees and every l)lade of grass with its fine crystalliza- 
tions. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect 
among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top 
of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red berries just 
before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and 
piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying 
all the glories of hs train, and strutting with the pride and 
gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 25t 

invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- 
books ; the servants were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and 
I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself 
with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 
Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his 
favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old 
church melody by Master Simon. As there were several 
good voices among the household, the effect was extremely 
pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation 
of heart, and sudden sally of gratefid feeling, with which the 
worthy squire delivered one stanza ; his eye glistening, and 
his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune : 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my ghttering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me "Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the year, 
either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. 
It was once almost universally the case at the seats of th« 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted 
that the custom is falling into neglect; for the dullest ob- 
server must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent 
in those households, where the occasional exercise of a beauti- 
ful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key- 
note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to 
harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamenta- 
tions over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and Aveak 
nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness ; and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, 
yet there was a brave display of cold meats, w'ine, and ale, on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by every body but the squire. We were escorted by 
a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about 
the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady 
old stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race that had been 
in the family time out of mind : they were all obedient to a 
dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in 
the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally 
upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in tha 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but 
feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, 
heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried 
with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 259 

an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was 
making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, 
that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently cor- 
rected in my phraseology by Master Simon^, who told me 
that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on 
liunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same 
way," added ho, with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a 
flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, 
of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird " both under- 
standing and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set 
up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the 
better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, 
when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in cor- 
ners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his fother, 
who was extremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly be- 
cause they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at 
the stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because 
they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly be- 
coming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed 
to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 
perched upon an antique stonQ balustrade. 

^Master Simon had now to hurry off", having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 



260 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal 
spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat 
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly 
were not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this 
last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a 
smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was con- 
fined to some half a dozen old authors, which the squire had 
put into his hands, and which he read over and over, when- 
ever he had a studious fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy 
day, or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country Contentments ; the 
Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight ; Izaac 
Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient wor- 
thies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all 
men who know but a few books, he looked up to theni with a 
kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to 
his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 
squire's library, and adapted to times that were popular 
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical 
application of scraps of literature, however, had caused him 
to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the 
village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little partic- 
ular in having his household at church on a Christmas morn, 
ing ; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and 
rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 261 

*• If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the churcli is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and estab- 
lished a musical club for their improvement ; he has also 
sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, ac- 
cording to the directions of Jervaise Markliam, in liis Country 
Contentments ; for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, 
solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouths,' 
among the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has 
culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the 
neighborhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most 
difficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being ex- 
ceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to acci 
dent." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 
a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it M'as a low 
snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The 
front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had 
been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of 
which, apertures had been formed to admit light into the 
small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the 
parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such 
as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich 
patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that 
was too wide, and stood off" from each ear ; so that his head 



262 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in 
its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pock- 
ets that would have held the church Bible and prayer book : 
and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in 
large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He 
was a complete black- letter h unter, and would scarcely read 
a work printed in the Roman character. The editions of Cax- 
ton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was in- 
defatigable in his researches after such old English \\Titers as 
have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In ^ofar- 
cncC; perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made 
diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday cus- 
toms of former times ; and had been as zealous in the inquirj 
as if he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with" 
that plodding spirit with Avhich men of adust temperament 
follow up any track of study, merely because it is denomi- 
nated learning ; indifTercnt to its intrinsic nature, whether it be 
the illustration of the ^\ isdom, or of the ri_baldr^ and obscenity 
of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes so in- 
tensely, that they seemed to have been reflected in his counte- 
nance ; whicli, if the flice be indeed an index of the mind, 
might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuk. 
ing the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among 
the greens with which the church was decorated. It Avas, he 
observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by 
the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might 



CHRISTTNIAG DAY. 2G3 

be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls 
and kitchens,! yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the 
Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. 
So tena cious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was 
obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of 
his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the 
service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, 
and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, 
on which lay the effigy of a Avarrior in armor, svith his legs 
crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it 
Avas one of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy 
Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in 
the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of 
the old school, and a man of old family connections. I ob- 
served too that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer- 
book Avith something of a flourish ; possibly to show off an 
enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and 
which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently 
most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping 
his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with 
much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, 
among Avhich I particularly noticed that of the villugo tailor, 
a pale fellow with a retreating forehead arid chin, who played 



264: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; 
and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and 
laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a 
round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two 
or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint ; 
but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like 
old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several 
had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd 
physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we some- 
times see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making 
up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious 
celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter 
to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that 
had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on 
which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there 
was a blunder at the very outset ; the musicians became flur- 
ried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; every thing went on 
lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning 
" Now let us sing with one accord," -which seemed to be a 
signal for parting company : all became discord and con- 
fusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, 
or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorjster in 
a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long 
sonorous nose ; who happened to stand a little apart, and, 
being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 265 

course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all 
up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing 
it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; sup- 
porting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Thco- 
philus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, 
and a cloud more of saints and fathers, froiii whom he made 
copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the 
necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point 
which no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon 
found that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to 
contend with ; having, in the course of his researches on the 
subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian 
controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such 
a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor 
old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of 
Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times past, 
and knew but little of the present. 

* From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 
2-tth, 1652 — "The House spent much time this day about the business 
of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were 
presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded 
upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, lY ; and in honor 
of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 
iO; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 ; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, 
in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse- 
mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of which 
Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of Christ- 
mas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the follow- 
ing day, which was commonly called Christmas day." 

12 



2G6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him 
as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution 
was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two cen- 
turies had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince 
pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge was denounced 
as " mere popery," and roast-beef as anti-christian ; and that 
Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly Avith the 
merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled 
into Avarmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a stub- 
born conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten 
champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas 
festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most 
solemn and aflfecting manner, to stand to the traditional cus- 
toms of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful 
anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects : for on leaving: the church the conorre- 
gation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit 
BO earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gath- 
ered in knots in the church-yard, greeting and shaking hands ; 
and the children ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating 
some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, 
informed me had been handed down from days of yore. The 
villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving 
him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of 

* " Ule ! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 26? 

heartfelt sincerity, and Avere invited by him to the hall, to 
take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I 
heard blessings UT\»^red by several of the poor, which con- 
vinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 
ground Avhich commanded something of a prospect, the sounds 
of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears : the 
squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an 
air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was 
of itself sufhcient to inspire phjlanibuiQpy. Notwithstanding 
the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey 
had acquired sufhcicnt power to melt away the thin covering 
of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the 
living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the 
dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every 
sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its 
silver rill of cold and^limpid water, glittering through the 
dripping grass ; and sent up slight ^ xhalations_ to contribute 
to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as 
the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, 
breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
thawing every heart into a flow. ' lie pointed with pleasure 
to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys 
of the comfortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. 



268 THE 8KETCH-BOOE. 

" I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and 
poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at \east, 
when you are sure of being welcome wh'v.fcver you go, and 
of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and 
I am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his male- 
diction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival 

" Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which Avere once prevalent at this 
season among the . lower orders, and countenanced by the 
higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses 
were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables were covered 
with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and 
the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor 
were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old 
games and local customs," said he, " had a great effect in 
making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of 
them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made 
the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say, 
with one of our old poets : 

* " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. c. on 
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter 
his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black- 
jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good 
Cheshire cheese. The Ilackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by 
daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) 
by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed of 
'aer laziness." — Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 269 

' I like them well — the curious preclsenesa 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered ; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their 
interests are separate. They have become too knowing, and 
begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and 
talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good 
humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and 
gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among 
the country people, and set the merry old English games 
going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts 
in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances 
occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the 
country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in 
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then, he had contented himself Avith inviting the decent 
part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christ- 
mas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among 
the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, Avithout 
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats 



270 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

\/ 

/decorated Avith greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen 
advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of 
^villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, 
^ where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 

formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, 
and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the 
music ; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the 
tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the 
skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many 
antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
island ; plainly proving that this was a lijieal descendant of 
the sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, 
" nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it 
in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, 
to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the 
rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party ti-as enter- 
tained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is 
true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they 
were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's 
back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving 
each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye 
they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With 
Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. 
His varied occupations and amusements had made him well 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 271 

known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at 
every farmhouse and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and 
their wives ; romped with their daughters ; and, like that type 
of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled the sweets from 
all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and. affability. There is something genuine and affec- 
tionate in the gaycty of the lower orders, when it is excited 
by the bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm 
glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or 
a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the 
heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the 
squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was 
much joking and laughter, particulai'ly between Master Simon 
and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared 
to be the wit of the village ; for I observed all his companions 
to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a 
gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : 
as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a window that 
commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, 
with pandean pipes and tambourine ; a jiretty coquettish house- 
maid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several 
of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her 
sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, 
and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected con- 
fusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNEE. 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie loaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

"Without the door let sorrow lie. 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wec'le bury 't in a Christmas pye. 
And evermore be merry. 

"Withers' Juvenilia. 

X HAD finished my toilet, and Mas loitering with Frank 
-*- Bracebridge in the library, Avhen "we heard a distant 
th'wacking sound, "which he informed me was a signal for the 
serving up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in 
kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the 
dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to ca,rry in the 
meats. 

Just in this nick tlie cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away.* 

* Sir John Suckling. 



THE CHKISTMAS DINNER. 273 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crack- 
hng fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious 
apartment, and the flame went sparkling and w^reathing up 
the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader 
and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens 
for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed 
round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I 
understood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, 
by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the 
painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they 
certainly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was 
told that the painting had been so considered time out of 
mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a 
lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the 
squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the 
fiimily hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such 
subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into 
current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this 
chivalric trophy, on which M'as a display of plate that might 
have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the 
vessels of the temple : " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, 
basins, and ewers ; " the gorgeous utensils of good companion- 
ship that had gradually accumulated through many genera- 
tions of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule 
candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other 
lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array 
glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
Bound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool 
12* 




274: / THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument ^vith a vast 
deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas board 
L^, display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of counte- 
nances ; those who were not handsome were, at least, happy ; 
and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. 
1 always consider an old English family as well worth study- 
ing as a collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's 
prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it 
may be from having continually before their eyes those rows of 
old family portraits, with which the mansions of this country 
are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity 
are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; 
and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture 
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to genera- 
tion, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of 
the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a 
Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; 
and there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, 
with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who 
was a great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Brace- 
bridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ances- 
tors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, Avhich was not a short familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these uncere- 
monious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the 
ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was 
expected ; when suddenly the butler entered the hall with 
some degree of bustle : he was attended by a servant on each 



THE CHKISTMAS DINNEK. 275 

side -with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which 
was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a 
lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at 
the head of the table. The moment this pageant made its 
appearance, the harper struck up a fl(jurish ; at the conclusion 
of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the 
squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old 
carol, the first verse of which was as follows : 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all syngc merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentri- 
"^cities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was 
introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the 
conversation of the squire and the parson, that it was meant 
to represent the bringing in of the boar's head ; a dish foi'- 
merly served up with much ceremony and the sound of 
minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on Christmas day. " II 
like the old custom," said the squire, " not merely because it 
is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed 
at the college at Oxford at which I Avas educated. When 
I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when 
I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college hall — - 
and my fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns ; 
many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 



276 TOE SKETCH-BOOK. 

such associations, and who was always more taken up with 
the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version 
of the carol ; M'hich he affirmed was different from that sung 
at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a 
commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by 
sundry annotations ; addressing himself at first to the com- 
pany at large ; hut finding their attention gradually diverted 
to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his 
number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks 
in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who 
was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
turkey.* 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day 
is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored 
by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be 
acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and 
learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray yon, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of BHss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER , .^^ 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
" ancient sirlom," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, 
'^ the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of good- 
ly presence, and full of expectation." There were several 
dishes quaintly decorated, and Avhicli had evidently something 
traditional in their embellishments ; but about which, as I did 
not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however", but notice a pie, magnificently deco- 
rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that 
bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a 
pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself 
to have one killed.* 

It wouli^be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 



The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertain- 
ments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head 
appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with*he beak richly gilt ; at 
the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the 
solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves 
to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, 
used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and pic." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and 
Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance 
with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous 
revels of the olden times : — 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues ; 

Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat 
wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. 
12* 



278 THE SKETCH-BOCK. 

may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things 
to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other 
make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was 
endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, the 
quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see 
the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives ; 
who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and 
seemed all well versed in their parts ; having doubtless been 
present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of 
profound gravity with which the butler and other servants 
executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They 
had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been 
brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the 
antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most 
probably looked upon all his whirnsical regulations as the 
established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he 
placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with 
acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christ- 
mas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the squire 
himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which 
he particularly prided himself-: alleging that it was too 
abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary 
servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the 
heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with 
roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* 

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; 
with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the 



THE CHEISTMAS DINNER. 279 

The old gentleman's -svhole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this iiiiglity 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, -with a hearty wish of a 
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round 
the board, for every one to follow his example, according to 
the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of 
good feeling, where all hearts met together,"' * 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and Avas kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, 
he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a booii com- 
panion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bo\TtP5r"_ -'" 
The merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round 
the hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's 
Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassai'c a swinger. 

* "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each 
having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, 
be was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chap- 
pell (chaplein) was to answer with a song." — Arch^ologia. 



280 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a Ijasty tang^sguS. 

1/ 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 

topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a 
great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay 
widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirtation. 
This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was con- 
tinued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman 
next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow 
hound ; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though 
rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their talents in 
hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation, 
he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms ; 
winking hard at me m ith both eyes, whenever he gave Master 
Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, 
seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors 
arc apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an under 
tone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman, 
and drove her own curricle. / 

he dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 



hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader roul ; and revel, yet I doubt 
whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoy- 
ment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse 



* From Poor Robin's Almanac. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 281 

pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kiiid heart a fountain 
of gladness, making every thing in its vicinity to freshen into 
smiles ! the joyous disposition of the worthy squire was per- 
fectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed to 
make all the world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his 
humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his 
philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated ; many good things were broached 
which had been thought of during dinner, but which would 
not exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively 
affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. 
Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pjingentingredient, and much 
too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humor is the 
oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial com- 
panionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and 
the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a 
sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required some 
effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a 
man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the 
two college chums presented pictures of what men may be 
made by their different lots in life. The squire had left the 
university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigor- 
ous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished 
on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on 
the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty 
tom.es, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there 



i2S2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glim- 
mering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at 
a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they 
once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an 
" alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his phys- 
iognomy.^ I verily believe was indicative of laughter ; — in- 
deed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took 
absolute oifence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and 
louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old 
songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk 
maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about 
the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had 
gathered from an excellent black-letter work, entitled " Cupid's 
Solicitor for Love," containing store of good advice for bache- 
lors, and which he promised to lend me : the first verse was 
to this effect : ^ , 

[He that will woo a widow must not dally, I 

( He must make liay while the sun doth shine ; \ 
He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 

But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. I 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck 
in the middle, every body recollecting the latter part excepting 
himself. The parson, too, began to show the efTccts of good 
cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig 
sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this junctu re_ 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 283 

we Avere summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at 
the private ijistigatioii of mine host, whose joviality seemed 
always tempered Avith a proper love of decorum.. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up 
to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all 
kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made 
its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at 
romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of chil- 
dren, and particularly at this happy holiday season, and could 
not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of 
their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blind- 
man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, 
and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the ofllce of that ancient 
potenate, the Lord of ^Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of 
the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the 
mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the 
skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue- 
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautifid 
confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torh off her 
shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tor- 
mentor ; and, from the slyness with which Master Simon 
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph 
in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than 
was convenient. 

'When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 

* At Christmasse there was ia the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee 
was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or niayster of nieiie disportes, and the 
like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, 
were he spirituall or temporal!. — Stowe. 



284 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was 
deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of 
some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from 
the library for his particular accommodation. » From this ven. 
erable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and 
dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing out 
strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of 
the surrounding country, with which he had become acquaint, 
ed in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half in. 
clined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat 
tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who 
live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the 
country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with 
the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several aneo^ 
dotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning 
the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the 
church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in 
that part of the country, it had always been regarded with 
feelings of superstition by the good Avives of the village. ^ It 
was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the 
church-yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; 
and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the church- 
yard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when 
the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It 
was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by 
the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit 
in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold 
and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept 
watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton in old times, 
who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 285 

just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble 
hand of the effigy, -which stretched him senseless on the pave- 
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the 
sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, there 
were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of ven- 
turing alone in the footpath that led across the church-yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru-^- 
sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, Avhich hung up in the 
hall, was thought by the servants to have something super- 
natural about it ; for they remarked that, in whatever part of 
the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior Avere still fixed on 
you, / The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been 
born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip 
among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her young days she 
had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, Avhen it was 
Avcll known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become 
visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his 
horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, 
down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on 
which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself; not that he needed it ; for he rode through closed 
gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the 
dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, 
making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much coun- 
tenanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, 
was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every gob- 
lin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and 
held the porter's wife in high favor on account of h:r talent 



Jlcl 



286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

for the marvellous. lie was himself a great reader of old 
legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not 
believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, raust 
live in a kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of hetcrogcneoua 
sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like 
the clang of rude minstrelsy, Avith the uproar of many small 
voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, 
and a train came trooping into the room, that might almost 
have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy, 
hat indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful dis- 
charge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea 
of a Christmas mummery or masking; and having called in 
to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who 
were equally ripe for any thing that should occasion romping 
and merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The 
old housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes- 
presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the 
relics of finery that had not seen the light for several genera- 
tions ; the younger part of the company had been privately 
convened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been 
bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very 
much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 

* Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old 
times ; and the wardrobes at hal's and manor-houses were often laid 
under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I 
strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben 
Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 287 

and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and 
must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. 
From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a 
frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the veiy trophy of a Decem- 
ber blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, 
dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnifi- 
cence of a foded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and 
high-heeled shoes. The young oflicer appeared as Robin 
Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging caR 
with a gold tassel. , . • |l 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deejj 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. 
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as 
" Maid Marian." The rest of the train had been metamor- 
phosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of 
tneancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings 
bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad 
skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-boflomed wigs, to represent 
the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other Avorth- 
ies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the 
control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Mis- 
rule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous 
sway Avith his wand over the smaller personages of the 
pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac- 
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar 
and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory 
by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he 
walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, 
which from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old 
family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join 
in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands 
and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and 
rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down 
the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish 
of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his 
hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwith- 
standing that the latter was discoursing most authentically on 
the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or peacock, from 
which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part, 
I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of 
whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspir- 
ing to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality break- 
ing out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old 
age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the fresh- 
ness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the 
scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were 
fiosting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only 
family in England in which the whole of them was still punc- 
tiliousl v observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled 
Avith all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zesL^: it was 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dunce called the Pavon, from 
pavo, a peacock, saj's, " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method 
of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, 
by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, 
and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in 
dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. 



THE CIIKISTMAS DINNER. 289 

suited to tliG time and place ; and as the old manor-house al- 
most reeled with mirth and wassaiL it seemed echoing back 
the joviality of long departed years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for 
me to pause in this ^nr^^^y. Methinks I hear the questions 
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — 
how is the world to be made wiser by this tallc ? " Alas ! is 
there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world 1 And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens 
laboring for its improvement 1 — It is so much pleasanter to 
please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than 
the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my 
sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of 
others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in 
my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky 
chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the 
brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of 
sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through the gather- 
ing film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human 
nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his 
fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then 
have written entirely in vain. 

* At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an 
old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out 
of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost 
all the customs above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the 
skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holi- 
days. The reader will find some notice of them in the author's account 
of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 

13 



LOITDON ANTIQUES. 

I do walk 

Mcthinks like Giiido Vaus, with my dark lanthorn. 

Stealing to set tlie town o' fire; T th' country 

I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 

Or Eobin Goodfellow. < 

Fletcdeb^ 

T AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of ex- 
-*- ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These 
arc principally to be found in the depths of the city, swal- 
lowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mor- 
tar ; but deriving poetical and romantic interest from the 
commonplace prosaic world around them. I was struck with 
an instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer ram- 
ble into the city ; for the city is only to be explored to 
advantage in summer time, when free from the smoke and 
fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for 
some time against the current of population setting through 
Fleet-street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, 
and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and discordant 
sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was get- 
ting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through 
which I had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore 
my way through the crowd, plunged into a by lane, and afler 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 

passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged 
into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the centre, 
overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by 
a fountain Avith its sparkling jet of water. A student with 
book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, 
partly meditating on the movements of two or three trim 
nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an 
oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the 
quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and re- 
freshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, 
to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of 
massive and rich architecture. The interior was circular and 
lofty, and lighted from above. Around were monumental 
tombs of ancient date, on which were extended the marble 
effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly 
crossed upon the breast ; others grasped the pommel of the 
sword, menac ing hostility even in the tomb ! — while the 
crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who 
had been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I 
do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the 
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of 
busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy 
sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another 
of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart 
of the city. I had been wandering for some time througli 
dull monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to strike the 



292 THK SKETCH-BOOK. 

eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a 
Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a 
spacious quadrangle forming the court-yard of a stately 
Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open. 

It Avas apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting 
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued 
on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched 
roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one 
end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden set- 
tles on each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or 
dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man 
in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray 
beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and 
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, that I had 
not met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess 
of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yel- 
low sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes 
of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft sum- 
mer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm 
on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about 
what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had 
evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those col- 
legiate establishments built of yore for the promotion of ^ 
learning, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the 
cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emulating 
in the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he 
inhabited. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 293 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and 
a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, 
came forth one by one ; proceeding in that manner through 
the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on 
me as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the low- 
er end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this 
most venerable and mysterious pile. It Avas as if the ghosts 
of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were 
passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such fan- 
cies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pic- 
tured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in the very centre 
of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts, 
and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice 
had many additions and dependencies, built at A'arious times 
and in various styles ; in one open space a number of boys, 
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their 
sports ; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old 
gray men in black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, 
sometimes conversing in groups : they appeared to be the 
pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I 
had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrol- 
ogy, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and magical 
sciences were taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, 
and were these black-cloaked old men really professors of the 
black art ? 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 



294 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange 
and uncouth objects ; implements of savage "warfare ; strange 
idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters 
decorated the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old- 
fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each 
side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham- 
ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, 
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance staring 
at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled 
old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry pro- 
jecting eyebrows. I at flrst doubted whether it were not a 
mummy curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw that it 
Avas alive. It was another of these black-cloaked old men, 
and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, 
and the hideous and sinister objects by which he Avas sur- 
rounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come upon the 
arch mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter, I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did 
I know whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose 
me into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the 
bottles on his mantelpiece 1 He proved, however, to be any 
thing but a conjuror, and his simple ga^nility soon dispelled 
all the magic and mystery with which I had enveloped this 
antiquated pile and its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an 
ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed 
householders, with which was connected a school for a limited 
number of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 295 

since on an old monastic establishment, and retained some- 
what of the conventual air and character. The shadowy lino 
of old men in black mantles who had passed before me in the 
hall, and whom I had elevated into magi, turned out to be the 
pensioners returning from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had 
made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of 
the place, and had decorated this final nestling-place of his old 
age with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. 
According to his own account he had been somewhat of a 
traveller ; having been once in France, and very near making 
a visit to Holland. lie regretted not having visited the latter 
country, " as then he might have said he had been there." — 
He was evidently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was arist ocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, as 
I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief asso- 
ciates were a blhid man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both 
which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a 
broken-down gentleman who had run through a fortune of 
forty thousand pounds left him by his father, and ten thou- 
sand pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum 
seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as 
well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous 
su ms. ^^ 

\ PTS/ The picturesque remnant of old times into winch 1 
hav&'thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter 
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on 
the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, be- 
ing one of those noble charities set on foot by individual mu- 



296 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

nificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of 
ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations of 
London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen bet- 
ter days, are provided, in their old age, with food, clothing, 
fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine 
together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been 
the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the estab- 
lishment is a school for forty-four boys. 

" Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speak- 
ing of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, 
" They are not to intermeddle with any business touching the 
affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, 
and take thankfully what is provided for them, without mut- 
tering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long 
hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their 
hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as be- 
comes hospital men to wear." " And in truth," adds Stow, 
" happy are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows 
of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these old men 
are ; having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, 
to serve God and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by the 
preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and 
who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of 
London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my 
hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig 
and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted 
shortly afler my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 297 

a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apoc- 
ryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring travellers like 
myself; and wliich have brought our general character for 
veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper 
inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory as- 
surances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told 
that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of 
the very interesting region in which he resides ; of which the 
following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



13* 



^ 






LITTLE BEITAI:N'. 

"What I write Is most true * * * * I have a ivbole booke of cases lying by me 

which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow 

bell) would be out of charity with me. 

Nasiie. 

TN the centre of the great cicy of London lies a small neigh- 
-■- borhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, 
of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the 
name of Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bar- 
tholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield and 
Long Lane on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of 
the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the 
yawning gulf of Bull-and-jNIouth Street separates it from 
Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little 
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. 
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster 
Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with 
an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As 
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the 
west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of 
their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became 
the great mart of learning, and wal* peopled by the busy and 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 299 

prolific race of booksellers ; these also gradually deserted it, 
and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street 
settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Church-Yard, 
where they continue to increase and multiply even at the 
present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears 
traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready 
to tumble down, the fronts of which are inagnificcntly enriched 
with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, 
and fishes : and fruits and flowers which it Avould perplex a 
naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, 
certain remains of Avhat were once spacious and lordly family 
mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into 
several tenements. Here may often be found the family of 
a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing 
among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time- 
stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and 
enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain 
many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your 
small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal 
antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street ; great 
bow windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carv- 
ings, and low arched door-ways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in 
the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. 
My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication hag 
included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes 
and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



SOO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I 
have a particular respect for three or four high-backed daw- 
footed chairs, covered with tarnislied brocade, which bear the 
n^arks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured 
in some of the «)ld palaces of Little Britain, They seem to 
me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt 
upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I have seen decay- 
ed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with 
which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my 
sitting-room is taken up with a bow window ; on the panes of 
which are recorded the names of previous occupants for many 
generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman- 
like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, 
and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, 
who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. 
As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and 
pay my bill regularly every weel^', I am looked upon as the 
only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, being 
curious to learn the internal state of a community so appa- 
rently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my Avay 
into all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the 
city ; the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment 
of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks 
and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation m^ny of the 
holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most 
religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns 
on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send 
love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of 
November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christ- 



LiliLJL EiiilAlJ ff!' ^ '"'''''^ col 

mas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in super- 
stitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds 
as the only true English wines ; all others being considered 
vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city Avonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; such as the 
great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; 
the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the 
Monument ; the lions in the Tower : and the wooden giants in 
Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling^ 
and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes 
a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising 
the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- 
fortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully 
at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the 
place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly 
concerning the old mansion-houses ; in several of which it is 
said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the 
former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the 
latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen 
walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight 
nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient pro- 
prietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One 
of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentle- 
man, of the name of Skryme, w^ho keeps a small apothecary's 
shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and 
projections ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair 
of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old w^omen, 

who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or 
13* 



302 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several 
snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and news- 
papers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of 
plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; 
which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He 
has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his 
customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same time puts 
both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in 
omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of Robert 
Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so 
much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and 
he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
tomers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of 
their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or pro- 
phecy, on w^hich he has been unusually eloquent. There has 
been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure 
up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the 
Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow 
Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange 
conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The 
same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the 
cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and, 
fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, 
cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here 
is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own 
eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrol- 
ogers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid 
their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 303 

The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty- 
two years, had all at once given up the ghost ; another kinn^ 
had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — 
another, in France, had been murdered ; there had been radical 
meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at 
Manchester ; the great plot in Cato Street ; — and, above all, 
the queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events 
are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a 
dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and 
associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-mon- 
sters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page 
of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds 
of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never 
expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which 
in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of 
Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite 
in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he is a man 
of no little standing and importance ; and his renown extends 
through ITuggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Alder- 
manbury. His opinion is very much taken in afiliirs of state, 
having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, 
together with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of 
England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with 
invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use 
for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impos- 
sible," so long as England is true to herself, that any thing can 



304 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

shake her : and he has much to say on the subject of the 
national debt ; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a 
great national bulwarlc and blessing. He passed the greater 
part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late 
years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity 
of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the 
world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hamp- 
stead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has 
passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of 
St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth 
Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is considered 
quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, 
St. Paul's Church-yard. His family have been very urgent 
for liim to make an expedition to ^Margate, but he has great 
doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed 
thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voy- 
ages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, 
and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of 
two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One 
held its meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patron- 
ized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, 
under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say 
that the latter was the most flourishing./ I have passed an 
evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable in- 
formation, as to the best mode of being buried, the compara- 
tive merits of church-yards, together Avith divers hints on the 
subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question dis- 
cussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 305 

latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned 
by these societies have happily died of late ; but they were 
for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people 
of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors 
and of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite 
a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- 
humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week 
at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the 
name of WagstafF, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half- 
moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old edi- 
fice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty 
wayfarer ; such as " Truinan, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," 
" Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and 
Compounds, etc." This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus 
and Momus from time immemorial. It has always been in 
the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably 
preserved by the present landlord. It was much frequented 
by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and 
was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the 
Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally prides himself 
upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal ram- 
bles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous 
walking-staff. This however is considered as rather a dubious 
and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes 
by the name of " The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They 
abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tra- 
ditional in the place, and not to be met with in any other 
part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap undertaker who 



306 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and 
indeed the prime wit of Little Britain,is bully Wagstaff him- 
self. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has in- 
herited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which 
go with it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He 
is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red 
foce, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair 
behind. At the opening of every club night he is called in to 
sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drink- 
ing trowl from Gammer Gurton's Needle. He sings it, to be 
sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's 
lips ; for it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and 
Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms 
that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it 
before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when 
Little Britain was in all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the ITalf-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be 
familiar to tlie majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current 
songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would 
observe, tliat the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful 
thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot cate but lytic meate. 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within. 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 

Bootli foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynougbe 

Whether it be new or olde. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



307 



It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue 
from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined 
with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into 
a confectioner's window, or snufhng up the steams of a cook- 
shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne tostc, 

And a crab laid in the fN're ; ' 

A little brcade shall do me stcade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor wuide, I trowe, 

Can hurtc nice, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Cho7-us. Backc and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

LovL'th well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes shce, tyll ye may see, 

The tcares run downe her chccke. 
Then doth she trowle to me tlie bowlo, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde. 
And sayth, swcetc harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynko, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fcllowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily troldc, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



308 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, 
and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the fair, 
which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is 
nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late 
quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of 
strange figures and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and 
revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, 
morning, noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on 
one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and 
prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even 
the sober decorum of private families, Avhich I must say is 
rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no 
proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keep- 
ing maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely 
set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show ; the Flying 
Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the celebrated Mr. 
Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish all their 
holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house 
with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny 
whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Brit- 
ain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with 
six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his proces- 
sion, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the 
grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, 
that the King himself dare not enter the city, without first 
knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking permission of 
the Lord Mayor : for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 309 

knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armor 
who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, 
has orders to cut down every body that offends against the 
dignity of the city ; and then there is the little man with a 
velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the Avindow of the 
state coach, and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff — 
Odd's blood ! If he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is 
not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, 
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar 
is an effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to for- 
eign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into 
the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the standing army 
of Beefeaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the 
world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and 
its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound 
heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased my- 
self with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles 
of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to 
renew the national character, when it had run to waste and 
degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of har- 
mony that prevailed throughout it ; for though there might 
now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adher- 
ents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasion- 
al feud between the burial societies, yet these were but tran- 
sient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with 
good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused 
each other except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 



310 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

which I have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games ; 
and where we sometimes had a good old English country 
dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year 
also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gipsy 
party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's 
heart good to see the merriment that took place here as we 
banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the 
woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wag- 
stafTand the merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young 
folks would play at blind-man's-buff and hidc-and-seck ; and 
it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to 
hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the 
bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger 
and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; for they gen- 
erally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away 
time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, 
get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes were always 
adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella maker in a 
double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, 
managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innova- 
tion creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring 
up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system in- 
to confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Lit- 
tle Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden sim- 
plicity of manners threatened with total subversion, by the 
aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The farnily of the Lambs had long been among the most 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 311 

thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs 
-sverc the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, 
and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil 
hour, however, one of the IMiss Lambs had the honor of being 
a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand an- 
nual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich 
feathers on her head. The family never got over it ; they 
were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set 
up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the 
errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of 
the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be 
induced to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's-bufF; they could 
endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard 
of in Little Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking 
bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, 
who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and 
a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he 
confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; 
but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's 
Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts towards the west. 
There were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from 
Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three 
Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be 
forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar 
with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, 
and the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The 



312 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 
night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles 
rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that 
kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butch- 
er's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the 
door 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say 
to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little 
humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," 
as she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it is equally true 
that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all pre- 
vious vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit 
and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, Avho 
would condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the 
piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. 
Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken- 
ward, and the Miss Timborlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched- 
Triars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted 
the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next 
gossiping convocation every thing that had passed, and pulling 
the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fashion- 
able was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite 
of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, 
with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, 
and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain 
tliat the daughters always spoke of him as " the old gentle- 
man," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite softness, 



LITTLE BlilTAIN. 313 

and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, 
and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there 
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would 
break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar 
good-humor that w'as irrepressible. His very jokes made his 
sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing his 
blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and hav- 
ing a " bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of 
his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing 
cold and civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and 
now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a 
hint about " quality binding," This both nettled and per- 
plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with 
the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage 
of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up 
his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's ; to sit after 
dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he de- 
tested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gen- 
tility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking 
and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every 
good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to at- 
tempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing- 
master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks 
of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor 
Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, 
and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot 
to pay for his lodgings. 
14 



314 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely 
the overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, 
and their liorror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent 
contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart 
pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to 
say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and 
that my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to fol- 
low their example. I overheard my landlady importuning 
her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French 
and music, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. 
I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five 
French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, 
parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood ; 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; 
and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the 
community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent 
oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a 
flmiily of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been 
repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which 
kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being 
now no longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they 
openly took the field against the fomily of the butcher. It is 
true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 
an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could 
speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, 
and had formed high acquaintances ; but the Trotters were 
not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 315 

feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of 
twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters 
were sure not to be behindhand : and though they might not 
boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, 
and were twice as merry. 

Tiie whole community has at length divided itself into fash- 
ionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The 
old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely 
discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest coun- 
try dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under 
the mistletoe last Christmas, I Avas indignantly repulsed ; the 
Miss Lambs having pronounced it " shocking vulgar.'' Bitter 
rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Lit- 
tle Britain; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys 
Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and 
what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I ap- 
prehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine 
John Bull ism. 

The immediate eifects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle 
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only 
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in 
high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cab- 
inet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not 
to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed 
myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their op- 
ponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, 



316 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my ap- 
prehension — if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a recon- 
ciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for eome other nest i/i this great city, 
where old English manners are still kept up ; where French 
is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there 
are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, 
I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old 
house about my ears ; bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu 
to my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs 
and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little 
Britain. 




STEATFOED-OK-ATOI!^. 

Tbou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of tilings more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrice. 

rr\0 a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
-*- which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary 
feeling of something like independence and territorial conse- 
quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his 
boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself 
before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may ; let 
kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to 
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all 
he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his scep- 
tre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undis- 
puted empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the 
midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment 
gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has ad- 
A'anced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the 
importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of en- 
joyment. " Shall I not take mine case hi mine inn 1 " thought 
I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and 
cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red 
Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 



318 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, 
inquired, with a hesitating air, Avhether I had rung. I under- 
stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My 
dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so abdicating my 
throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and 
putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, 
the jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about 
the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; 
and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the 
breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to 
burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and 
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his 
father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, 
which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. 
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names 
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, 
rmiks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; and 
present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 



STKATFOKD-ON-AVON. 319 

red face, lighted up by a cold Lluo tanxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an ex- 
ceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in cxhibit- 
in*' the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, 
abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very match- 
lock Avith which Shakspearc shot the deer, on his poaching ex- 
ploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; Avhich proves that 
he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh : the sword also 
Avith Avhich he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern Avith 
Avhich Friar Laurence discovered Komeo and Juliet at the 
tomb ! There Avas an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mr.l- 
berry-trce, Avhich seems to haA'e as extraordinary poAvers of 
self-multiplication as the Avood of the true cross ; of Avhich 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of cui-iosity, hoAvever, is Shaks- 
peare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind Avhat Avas his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat Avhen a boy, Avatching 
the sloAvly revolving spit Avith all the longing of an urchin ; 
or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Strat- 
ford, dealing forth church-yard tales and legendary anecdotes 
of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the 
custom of every one that visits the house to sit: Avhether this 
be done Avith the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of 
the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact ; 
and mine hostess privately assured mo, that, though built of 
solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of dcA^otees, that the chair 
had to be ncAv bottomed at least once in three years. It is 
Avorthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary 
chair, that it partakes something of the A^olatile nature of tho 



320 THE sketch-booe:. 

Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian en- 
chanter ; for though sold some few years since to a northern 
princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again 
to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and 
local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise 
all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. 
What is it to us, whether these stories be true or folse, so 
long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and 
enjoy all the charm of the reality 1 There is nothing like 
resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on 
this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the 
claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, Avhen, 
luckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at de- 
fiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on 
an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from 
the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; 
the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church-yard, and 
the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into 
its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which 
are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched 
way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the 
church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the 



BTKATFORD-ON-AVON. 



321 



l^ray tomlDstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, 
arc half covered with moss, ■which has likewise tinted the rev- 
erend old building. Small birds have built their nests among 
the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 
flutter and chirping ; and rooks arc sailing and cawing aboul 
its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray -headed 




VJ Crai^ou.Bei. 



sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key 
of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider him.self a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use 
of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and 
was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which per- 
vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- 
washed room, Avith a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes 
14* 



^22 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, 
and the drawer contained the family library, composed of 
about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient 
clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the 
opposite side of the room ; with a bright warming-pan hang- 
ing on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday 
cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep 
enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one cor- 
ner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue- 
eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated 
crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and 
who, I found, had been liis companion from childhood. They 
had played together in infancy ; they had worked together in 
manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away 
the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be 
buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not 
often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly 
and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom 
scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new 
to impart. The long interval during which Shakspeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow 
over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely 
any thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of 
conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford ju- 
bilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the 



STllATFORD-ON-AVON. 323 

fote, who superintended the arrangements, and, who, accord- 
ing to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively and 
bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down 
Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickcncr of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspcare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as 
to Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discov- 
ered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a 
rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having comparatively 
but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved 
doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi' 
tecture and embellishments superior to those of most countr}> 
churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility 
and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and 
banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of 
Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and 
sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and 
the Avon, which runS at a short distance from the Avails, keeps 
up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot 
where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on 
it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in 



324 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, 
they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which 
seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as 
a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
finely-arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he 
was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
the vastncss of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely 
death for the world : for what fruit might not have been 
expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 
it Avas from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into his grave. No 
one, however, presumed to meddle with his remitins so awfully 
guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the 
curious, or any collector of relics, should bo tem2)ted 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 325 

to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the 
phice for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture 
closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in 
at the hole, but could see neither coflui nor bones ; nothing 
but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dusi 
of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not 
connected with Shakspeare. Ilis idea pervades the . place ; 
the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, 
no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in 
perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false or dubi- 
ous, but hero is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As 
I trod the sounding pavement, there "was something intense 
and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of 
Shakspeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; 
and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought 
from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to sec the old family seat of the Lucys, at 
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, 
in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed 
his youthful ofience of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained 

exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to 

14* 



/ 



326 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful 
captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas 
Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; 
for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pas- 
quinade, which was afllxed to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the luiight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put 
the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer- 
stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puis- 
sance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He 
forthwith abandoned the plesant banks of the Avon and his 
paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became a hanger- 
on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote for the 
stage ; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and tlie world gained 
an immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, 
a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and 
revenged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way of 
a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original 
Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the 
justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, 
had ■white lucesf in the quarterings. 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — 
A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscallo it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great ; 
Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it. 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befiiU it. 

f The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 



STKATFOKD-ON-AVON. 327 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; 
but I lodk upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When 
left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every 
thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shak- 
speare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was 
to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous 
characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the 
place, and was one of those unluclcy urchins, at mention of 
whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will 
one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir 
Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish 
knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, 
as something delightfully adventurous.* 

* A proof of Shakspcarc's random habits and associates in his youth- 
ful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford 
by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the 
Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town 
of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry 
used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to chal- 
lenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of 
drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove 



328 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whimsi- 
cal but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the 
bard. As the house stood but little more than three miles' 
distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, 
that I misht stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas of 
rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the tem- 
perature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects 
upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness 
this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath steal- 
ing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning 

the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was 
Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that " they who drink beer 
will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The 
chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a 
retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had 
scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced 
to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still 
standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed re- 
turning to Bedford, but he dechned, saying he had had enough, having 
drank with 

Piping Pcbworth, Dancing Marston, 

Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wieksford, 

Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets 
thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill 
on the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; 
_and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



stkatfoed-on-avOn. 329 

to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade : and the 
trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, 
giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold 
snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to 
be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens 
before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs 
was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered 
about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw 
a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the 
lark, springing up from the recking bosom of the meadow, 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth 
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mount- 
ing up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on 
the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little 
song in Cymbeline : 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
"With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : 
every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspearc. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 



830 TH]': SKETCH-BOOK. 

superstitions which he ha3 woven like M'itchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular 
amusement in winter evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell 
merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, 
giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and 
friars."* 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings 
through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from 
among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes dis- 
appearing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and some- 
times rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep 
round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of 
country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line 
of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all 
the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in 
the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and 
under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property 

* Scot, in his " Discovcrie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. " And they have so fruid us with bull-beggars, spirits, 
witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with 
the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conju- 
rors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, 
the mare, the man in the oko, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, 
Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, 
that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



SIRATFORD-ON-AVON. 331 

r— at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some 
measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, 
to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and 
pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. lie brcatlios 
the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, 
as the lord of the soil; and if he has not the privilege of 
calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same 
time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The 
wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye 
raniied through a lonj; lessening vista, with nothing to inter- 
rupt the view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalk- 
ing like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that 
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the 
pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evi- 
dence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a 
period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic 
grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and 
proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family ; and 
I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, 
when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, 
that " money could do much with stone and mortar, l)ut, 
thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building 
up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of 
Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 



S32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

some of Shakspcare's commentators have supposed he derivtJ 
his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting 
Avoodland pictures in " As you like it." It is in lonely 
wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep 
but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely 
sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagina- 
tion kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite 
images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and -we revel in a 
mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It M-as 
in some such mood, and perhaps inider one of those very 
trees before me, ^vhich threw their broad shades over the 
grassy banks and quivering waters of the A\-on, that the 
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which 
breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build, 
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great 
gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in 
front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and 



STRATFORD-ON-AVOX. 333' 

flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient bar- 
bacan ; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers ; 
though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The 
front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone- 
shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, 
and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. 
x\t each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding 
or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majes- 
tically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable 
old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity 
of the latter : 

" J^alstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shalloio. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John :^marry, good air." 

What have may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard Avas locked ; there was no show of servants bustling 
about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, 
being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. 
The only sign of domectic life that I met with was a white cat, 
stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, 
as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to men- 
tion the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw sus 



334 THE SKETCH-COOK. 

pended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still 
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that 
rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenu- 
ously manifested m the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to 
the mansion, I was courteously received by a worthy old 
housekeeper, who, with the civility and comunicativeness of 
her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater 
part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern 
tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken stair- 
case ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient 
manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must 
have had in the days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched 
and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery in which stands an 
organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which for- 
merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made 
way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, 
calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the 
rally ing-place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of 
the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, 
which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned 
in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for 
many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted 
to observe in the quarterings the three tohiie luces, by which 
the character of Sir Thomas Avas first identified with that of 
Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the 
Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with 
FalstafF for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and 
broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 335 

of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may 
suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant 
Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of 
Sir Thomas. 

" Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber 
matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir 
Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorwn. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master par- 
son ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or 
obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hun- 
dred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his 
ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces 
in their coat.***** 

Shalloip. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of 
Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
and not to hear a riot ; take your vizamcnts in that. 

Shalloiv. Ila ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should 
end it ! " 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this 
lady had been sadly addicted to "cards, and had gambled away 
a great portion of the family estate, among which was that 
part of the park where Shakspearc and liis comrades had killed 
the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained 



336 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

by the family even at the present day. It is but justice to 
this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine 
hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention Avas a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
Lucy and his family, who inliabited the hall in the latter part 
of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the 
vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that 
it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being 
an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring 
hamlet of Charlecot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the 
costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in 
ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a 
peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-col- 

* This effigy is in white marble, and rcpi'csents the Knight in com- 
plete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is 
the following inscription ; which, if really composed by her husband, 
places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

Here lyetli the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charle- 
cot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas 
Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out 
of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February 
in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All 
the time of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never 
detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her 
husband most faythful and true. In friendship most constant ; to what 
in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In 
governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did 
converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hos- 
pitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of 
the cnvyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so gar- 
nished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by 
any. As shce lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe 
by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

Thomas Lucye. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 337 

ored beard." Ilis lady is seated on the opposite side of the 
picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have 
a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds 
and spaniels are mingled in the family group y a hawk is seated 
on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds 
a bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, 
and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman 
in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former 
days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural 
domains ; and in Avhich it might be presumed the redoubted 
Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant 
Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out 
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the 
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded 
by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving- 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob- 
serves, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different fiimilies of dogs, 
and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their 
throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true bur- 
den of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the 
sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his de- 
scription of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that 
run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both 
long and short winged. His great hall was gommonly strewed with 
marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. 
On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, 
houiids, and spaniels." 

15 



338 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

men, with their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought 
in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, 
huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I flxncied bright faces of curious housemaids 
peeping from the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery 
the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, 
eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in 
womanhood." — Who would have thought that this poor varlet, 
thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, 
and the sport of rutic boors, was soon to become the delight 
of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to 
the human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppress- 
or by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
justice treated Sir John FalstafT and Cousin Silence " to a last 
year's pippin of his own grafting, wdth a dish of caraways ; " 
but I had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings 
that I was obliged to give up any further investigations. When 
about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties 
of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refresh- 
ment : an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to 
say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I 
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative 
of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspcare, even 
in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this 
respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and py«, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * I will not 
excuse you ; you shall not bo excused ; excuses shall not ue admitted ; 
there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * " *. Some 



STEATFORD-ON-AVON. 339" 

pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Every thing brought them as it were 
before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, 
I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his flivorite ditty : 

" ' Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the sin- 
gular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of 
his mind over the very flice of nature ; to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 
" working-day world " into a perfect foiry land. lie is indeed 
the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
but upon the imagination and the heart. Onder the wizard 
influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a com- 
plete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the 
prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of 
the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; 
with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet 
which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak : had beheld the fair Rosa- 
lind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands ; 
and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat 
Jack Falstafl" and his contemporaries, from the august Justice 
Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet 



340 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard 
who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent 
illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a 
lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction, which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. 
What honor could his name have derived from being mingled 
in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and 
venal eulogiums of a titled multitude 1 What would a crowd- 
ed corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with 
this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may 
be but the offspring of an over-wrought sensibility ; but hu- 
man nature is niade up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best 
and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feel- 
ings. He who has sought renown about the world, and has 
reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that 
there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the 
soul as that which springs \ip in his native place. It is there 
that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his 
kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart 
and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is 
drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infixnt to the mother's 
arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his child- 
hood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 



STUATFORD-ON-AVON. 341 

when, wandering fi)rth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he havo 
foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered 
with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory 
of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guard- 
ed as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, 
on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should 
one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentles land- 
scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to hii 
tomb ! 




TRAITS OF INDIAIT CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he 
gave him not to cat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speech or an Indian Chief. 

nj'^ITERE is something in ihe character and habits of the 
-*- North American savage, taken in connection "with the 
scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast Lakes, 
boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that 
is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sublime. lie is 
formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His 
nature is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with 
difliculties, and to support privations. There seems but little 
soil in his heart for the support of the kindly virtues ; and 
yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through 
that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up 
his character from casual observation, we should find him 
linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of those 
sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of Amer- 
ica, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged 
by the Avhite men. They have been dispossessed of their 
hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton 
warfare : and their characters have been traduced by bigoted 
and interested writers. The colonist often treated them like 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CIIAKACTEE. 34:3 

beasts of the forest ; and the autlior has endeavored to justify 
him in hi.s outrages. The former found it easier to extermi- 
nate than to civilize ; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. 
The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient 
to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wander- 
ers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because 
they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre- 
ciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too 
often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been re- 
garded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a ques- 
tion of mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly 
wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is 
sheltered by impunity ; and little mercy is to be expected 
from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile and is con- 
scious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, ex- 
ist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters and manners of 
the Indian tribes ; the American government, too, has wisely 
and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- 
bearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud 
and injustice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, 

* The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions 
to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them 
the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect 
them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from 
them by individuals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive 
lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of govern- 
ment. These precautions are strictly enforced. 



344 THE skp:tcii-eook. 

however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable horclv-s 
which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settle, 
ments. These are too commonly composed of degenerate be. 
ings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited by its civilization. That proud independence, 
which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been 
shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their 
spirits arc humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, 
and their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior 
knowledge and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society 
has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs that 
will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of fer- 
tility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their dis- 
eases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the low 
vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand super- 
fluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere ex- 
istence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, who 
fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, 
and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet un- 
trodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our 
frontiers to be the mere Avrecks and remnants of once power- 
ful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, 
and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, 
repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown 
in savage life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free 
and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, 
indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like 
vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwellings re- 
plete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sen- 
sible of the comparative wretchedness of their own condition. 



TKAITS OF INDIAN CIIARACTKK. 345 

Luxury spreads its ample board bcft^rc their eyes ; but they 
are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the 
fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : 
the "whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they 
feel as reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of 
gratification within their reach. They saw every one around 
them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, feed- 
ing on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. 
No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger ; 
ho smoke curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit 
down by its fire, and join the hunter in his repast. " Por," 
says an old historian of New England, " their life is so void 
of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of 
those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so 
compassionate, that rather than one should starve through 
want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their time mer- 
rily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of" Such 
were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their prim- 
itive natures : they resembled those wild plants, which thrive 
best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of 
cultivation, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggera- 
tion, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in 
which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar princi- 
ples under which they have been educated. No being acts 
15* 



346 THE SKETCII-UOOK. 

more rigidly from rule than the Indian. Ilis whole conduct 
is regulated according to some general maxims early implant- 
ed in his mind. The moral laws that govern him arc, to bo 
sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the white 
man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but 
how many does he violate 1 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness 
with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly 
to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the In- 
dians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, 
and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence 
and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor 
is sufficient caution observed iiot to offend against those feel- 
ings of pride or superstition, which often prompts the Indian 
to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The 
solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white 
man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His 
pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards 
fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on them are propor- 
tionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we 
cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also 
limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as 
in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of 
the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instan- 
taneously dilfiised. One council fire is sufficient for the dis- 
cussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the 
lighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition 
combino to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator 



^ TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 347 

awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a 
kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet 
and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead 
at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's 
mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain 
for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed 
generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by 
chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, have been 
known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by won- 
derfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles 
to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones 
of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have 
passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime 
and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been 
violated, gathered his men togetlier, and addressed them in 
the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a 
curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance 
of fdial piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as 
my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast 
closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much 
troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried 
aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, sec the 
breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, 



348 THE SKETCH-BOOK. • 

and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those 
wild people who have defaced my monument in a despiteful 
manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs ? 
See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, de- 
faced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and 
implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly 
intruded on our land. If this be suflcred, I shall not rest 
quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit van- 
ished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to 
get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, 
and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have a(]du<^ed this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been at- 
tributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and 
generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character 
and customs prevents our properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is 
their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly 
in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though 
sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their 
numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly 
felt ; this was particularly the case when they had been fre- 
quently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in 
Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable 
to its neighbors, has been broken up and drive)! away, by the 
capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There 
was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merci- 
less ; not so inuch to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide 
for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious 
belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also 



TKAITS OB' INDIAN CHARACTER. 349 

among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had 
fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
The prisoners, however, who arc not thus sacrificed, are adopt- 
ed into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated 
with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, 
so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the 
alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to remain 
with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home 
and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
heiirhtened since the colonization of the whites. What was 
formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been 
exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot 
but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their 
ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the 
gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, 
smarting with injuries and indignities which they have indi 
vidually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair 
by the wide-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin 
of European warflire. The whites have 'too frequently set 
them an example of violence, by burning their villages, and 
laying waste their slender means of subsistence : and yet they 
wonder that savages do not show moderation and magnanim- 
ity towards those who have left them nothing but mere ex- 
istence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the hidians, also, as cowardly and treach. 

erous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to 

open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude 

code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is 

praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to 
15^ 



350 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he tri* 
umphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been 
enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is 
naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to 
his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. 
They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with 
horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to de- 
pend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters Avith 
these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when 
he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he at 
first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of 
course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous cour- 
age ^'hich induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, 
and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of 
society, and produced by education. It is honorable, because 
it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive 
repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal 
ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble. 
It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the 
dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an 
evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cher- 
ished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the 
theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of 
fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity 
of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody 
in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its 
reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 



TEAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 351 

opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a na- 
tion's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, 
courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of 
heroism : and arrayed in all the glorious " pomp and circum- 
stance of war," this turbulent quality has even been able to 
eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which 
silently ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of 
human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of dan- 
ger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of 
it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril 
and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem 
necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his 
existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of war- 
fiire is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for 
fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship 
careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean; — 
as the bird mingles amons; clouds and storms, and winrrs its 
way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; — so the 
Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 
the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may 
vie in distance and danger with the jDilgrimage of the devotee, 
or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast for- 
ests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking en- 
emies, and pining fiimine. Stormy lakes, those great inland 
seas, arc no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of 
bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with 
the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the riv- 
ers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil 
and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 



352 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the 
panther, and the bufTalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the 
cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian 
in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which 
he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed we here behold him 
rising superior to the Avhite man, in consequence of his pecu- 
liar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the can- 
non's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, 
and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of 
surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. lie even 
takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their 
ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his 
very vitals, and the flesh slirinks from the sinews, he raises 
his last song of ti-iumph, breathing tlic defiance of an uncon- 
quered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness 
that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding ths obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 
natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which 
throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. 
Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of 
the eastern provinces, which, though recorded Avith the color- 
ing of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves; and 
will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice 
shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from 
the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHAEACTEK, 353 

place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, 
when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable 
inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all 
being despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After 
a series of similar transactions, " our soldiers," as the histo- 
rian piously observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to 
make a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being 
lumted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire 
and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the sad remnant of the 
Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge 
in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; 
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their 
tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of 
their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an 
insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dis- 
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situ- 
ated, their enemy " plied them Avith shot all the time, by 
which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In 
the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few 
broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the 
rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in 
the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self- 
willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut 
to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke 
upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, 
we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of them 
sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, 
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the 



354 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of 
them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more 
were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded 
more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad- 
miring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness 
of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of hu- 
man nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, 
they found the senators clothed in their robes, and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they 
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous ; 
in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen ! 
How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! 
Ilow different is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in 
state, from virtue, naked and destitute, and j^erishing obscure- 
ly in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that 
sheltered th»m have been laid low, and scarce any traces re- 
main of them in the thickly-settled states of New England, 
excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a 
stream. And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those 
other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally 
been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of 
white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that 
their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still 
linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the trib- 
utary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those 



TKAITS OF INDIAN CIIAKACTEK. 355 

tribes that once spread over ^Massachusetts and Connecticut, 
and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Sus- 
quehanna ; and of those various nations that flourished about 
the Potomac and the Kappahannock, and that peopled the for- 
ests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like 
a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will be 
lost in forgetfulncss ; and " the places tliat now know them 
will know them no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some 
dubious meniorial of them should survive, it may be in the 
romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his 
glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities 
of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of 
their wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were 
invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes 
and the sepulchres of their fathers, huj)ted like wild beasts 
about the earth, and sent down with violence and butcliery to 
the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and incre- 
dulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the inhu- 
manity of their forefathers. — " We are driven back, " said an 
old warrior, " until we can retreat no forther — our liatehets 
are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly cxtin 
guished : — a little longer, and the white man will cease to per- 
secute us — for we shall cease to exist ! " 



PHILIP OP POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look: 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: 
Train'd from bis tree-rock'd cradlo to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

TT is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated 
-*- of the discovery and settlement of America, have not 
given us more particular and candid accounts of the remark- 
able characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty an- 
ecdotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and 
interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human 
nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive 
state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something 
of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and un- 
explored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, 
the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those 
generous and romantic qualities which have been artificially 
cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood 
and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 



PniLIP OF rOKANOKET. 357 

the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his 
follow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold 
and peculiar traits of native character arc refined away, cr 
softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed 
good-breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, 
and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of 
popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his 
artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from 
the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses 
of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus the 
attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every 
roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where 
the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet sur- 
flicc ; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness 
and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the 
glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- 
ume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with 
great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars 
with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive 
even from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civil- 
ization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how 
easily the colonists Avere moved to hostility by the lust of 
conquest ; how merciless and exterminating Avas their Avar- 
fare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intel- 
lectual beings Avere hunted from the earth, how many brave 
and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, Avere broken 
doAvn and trampled in the dust ! 



35S THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian war. 
rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 
and Connecticut. lie was the most distinguished of a number 
of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the 
Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, 
at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of 
native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle 
of which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in 
the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a 
thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit sub- 
jects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left 
scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, 
like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers arc called 
by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the 
New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their 
situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheaftening. 
Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away 
through sickness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling 
wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an al- 
most arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting 
climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and 
nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but 
the strong excitement of relifjious enthusiasm. In this forlorn 
situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of 
the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great 
extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty 

* While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is in- 
formed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic 
poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 359 

number of the strangers, and expelling them from his terri. 
tories, into Avhich they had intruded, he seemed at once to 
conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended towards 
them the rites of primitive hospitality. lie came early in 
the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by 
a mere handful of followers, entered into a solemn league of 
peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and prom- 
ised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. 
Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the 
integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- 
peached, lie continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the 
white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, and 
to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no jeal- 
ousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly be- 
fore his death he came once more to New Plymouth, with his 
son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of 
peace, and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- 
aries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made 
to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but, finding 
the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he 
7nildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his 
life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they 
had been named by the English), to the residence of a prin- 
cipal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence ; 
and entreating that the same love and amity which had ex- 
isted between the white men and himself might be continued 
afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in 
peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow 



SCO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to expe- 
rience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. lie was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dic- 
tatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation; and 
he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. lie Avas doomed soon to incur their hos- 
tility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansets to rise 
against the English and drive them from the land. It is im- 
possible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts 
or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, however, 
by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that 
they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid in- 
crease of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in 
their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed 
force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their 
courts. lie was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised 
at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his 
followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The sudden- 
ness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dig- 
nity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud 
savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He was per- 
mitted to return home, on condition of sending his son as a 
pledge for his reappearance ; but the blow he had received 
was fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a victin. 
to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty 
spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 36i 

known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of 
great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having 
always cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the 
wliites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have 
been the case. He considered them as originally but mere 
intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indul- 
gence, and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. 
He saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping from 
their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and 
dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally pui-- 
chascd by the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of 
Indian purchases, in the early periods of colonization ? The 
Europeans always made thrifty bargains through their su- 
perior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions 
of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated 
savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by 
which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. 
Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough 
for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans 
his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they 
were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his 
brother, lie suppressed them for the present, renewed the 
contract Avith the settlers, and resided peaceably fjr many 
years at Pokanoket, or, as it Avas called by the English, 
Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 

16 



362 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and in. 
definite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at 
length charged with attempting to instigate the various East- 
ern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to 
throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this 
distant period to assign the proper credit due to these early 
accusations against the Indians. There was a proncness to 
suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of 
the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle 
tale. Informers abounded where talebearing met with coun- 
tenance and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed 
when its success was certain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural 
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
had received amonjj the settlers. He changed his faith and 
his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced 
the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time 
as Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had en- 
joyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the 
clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he aban- 
doned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order 
to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting 
against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. 
Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, 
but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too flir to retract ; they had previously deter- 
mined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor ; they had 
publicly evinced their distrust ; and had done enough to 
insure his hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual mode 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. S6S 

of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had "become neces. 
sary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, 
was shortly afterwards found dead, in a pond, having fallen a 
victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of 
whom Avas a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended 
and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable 
witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punish- 
ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the 
passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very 
feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined 
to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. 
The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still 
rankled in his mind ; and he had a further Avarning in the 
tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narra- 
gansets, who, after manfully ficing his accusers before a tri- 
bunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 
conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been per- 
fidiously despatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, 
gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers 
that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children 
to the Narragansets for safety ; and wherever he appeared, 
was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, 
and committed various petty depredations. In one of their 
maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. 
This was the signal for open hostilies ; the Indians pressed to 



SCA THE SKETCII-EOOK. 

revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war 
resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the 
public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage 
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious ftmcies, and 
had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a 
Iftlief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians 
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- 
ings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect 
form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious 
apparition." At Iladley, Northampton, and other towns in 
their neighborhood, " was heard the report of a great piece of 
ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable 
echo."* Others where alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning 
by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to 
whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the 
air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied 
that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and 
certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, 
filled the superstitious in some towns Avith doleful forebod- 
ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena : to the northern lights which 
occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode 
in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top 

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 365 

branches of the forest ; the crash of fiillon trees or disrupted 
rocks ; and to tliose other uncouth sounds and echoes which 
■will sometimes strike the car so strangely amidst the pro- 
found stillness of Avoodland solitudes. These may have 
startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exag- 
gerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to with 
that avidity with which we devour Avhatever is fearful and 
mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious 
fancies, and the grave record made of them by one of the 
learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the 
times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and 
savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with 
superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the 
blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antag- 
onists : on the part of the Indians it was Avaged with the 
desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to 
expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the lime ; Avho dwells with horror and indigna- 
tion on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, 
whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atroci- 
ties of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a 
traitor ; Avithout considering that he was a true born j:>rince, 
gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
Avrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his 
line ; and to deliver his native land from the oppression of 
usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 



366 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

really been formed, was Avorthy of a capacious mind, and, 
had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been 
overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually 
broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of 
casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets 
forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and 
wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that 
have been given of it, avc can arrive at simple facts, wc find 
him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a 
contempt of suffering and hardship, and an unconquerable 
resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost imper- 
vious to any thing but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he 
gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its 
stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and 
would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, 
carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now 
and then indications of these impending ravages, that filled 
the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The 
report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the soli- 
tary woodland, where there was known to be no white man ; 
the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would some- 
times return home wounded ; or an Indian or two would be 
seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and suddenly dis- 
appearing ; as the lightning will sometimes bo seen playing 
silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the 
tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the 



• PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 367 

settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to 
all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far dis- 
tant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strong- 
holds, were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in 
some parts of New England ; composed of loose bogs of 
deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank 
weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain foot- 
ing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered 
them almost impracticable to the white man, though the 
Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. 
Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was 
Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English 
did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark 
and frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and 
miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore 
invested the entrance to the'Ncck, and began to build a fort, 
with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his 
warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, 
in the dead of the night, leaving the Avomen and children 
behind ; and escaped away to the westward, kindling the 
flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the 
Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 
In this way Philip became a theme of imiversal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated 
his real terrors. lie was an evil that walked in darkness ; 
whose coming none could foresee, and against which none 
knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
w^ith rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of 



368 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ubiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely-extended fron. 
tier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said 
to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were circu- 
lated concerning him. lie was said to deal in necromancy, 
and to be attended by an old Indian Avitch or prophetess, 
whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and 
incantations. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian 
chiefs; either through their own credulity, or to act upon that 
of their followers : and the influence of the prophet and the 
dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in 
recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, 
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he liad lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a 
fiithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narra- 
ganscts. lie was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquit- 
tal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to 
death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He was 
the heir," says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and 
insolence, as well as of his malice towards the English;" — he 
certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legit- 
imate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne to 
take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip 
and his broken forces with open arms ; and gaA^e them the 
most generous countenance and support. This at once, drew 
upon him the hostility of the English ; and it M'as determined 
to strike a signal blow that should involve both the Sachems 
in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore gathered 



PHILIP OF POK.VNOKET. 309 

together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of winter, 
when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be traversed 
with comparative fiicility, and would r.o longer afford dark and 
impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, 
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; 
where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their 
forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, 
was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or 
six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with 
a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to Avhat is 
usually displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the 
martial genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a rcnegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumul- 
tuous. The assailants were )'epulsed in their first attack, and 
several of their bravest oflicers were shot down in the act of 
storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed 
with greater success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians 
were driven from one post to another. They disputed their 
ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most 
of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and 
bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviv< 
ing warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the 
thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the 
whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women 
IG* 



370 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and the children perished in the flames. This last outrage 
overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring 
woods resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered 
by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of 
their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives 
and offspring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a con- 
temporary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the women and 
children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most 
horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some 
of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they 
were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, 
whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with 
humanity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel."* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of 
the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet fiiithfid to his ally, and to the hapless cause which 
lie had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on 
condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared 
that " he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become 
a servant to the English." His home being destroyed ; his 
country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the con- 
querors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the 
Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole 
body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the 
English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 

* MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 371 

■with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconcic, in tho 
vicinity of Alount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant fur 
the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers 
had passed safely through the Pcquod country, and were in 
the centre of the Narraiianset, restinij at some Aviirwams near 
Pawtuckct River, "when an alarm was given of an approach- 
ing enemy. — Having but seven men by him at the time, 
Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring 
hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. lie then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand, 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. Ho 
attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 
hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw ofl*. first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canon- 
chet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards 
confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, and 
he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made 
no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and bold- 



372 TILE SKETCH-BOOK, 

ness of heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride 
of his spirit arose within him ; and from that moment, we 
find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but re- 
peated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being 
questioned by gne of the English who first came up with him, 
and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud- 
hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youth- 
ful countenance, replied, " You are a child — you cannot under- 
stand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — 
him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he 
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with 
his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he 
would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of a 
Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would burn the 
English alive in their houses ; he disdained to justify him- 
self, haughtily answering that others were as forward for 
the war as himself, and " he desired to hear no more 
thereof" 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the 
generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ; a 
being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no lavr, 
religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last 
words of him that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his 
soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he ob- 
served " that he liked it well, for he should die before his 



riiiLip OF roK.vKOKET. 373 

heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of him- 
self." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he 
was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own 
rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an inefTectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed 
of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted 
by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror 
of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the 
neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself 
daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around 
him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims 
to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which 
they were harassed. Ilis stores were all captured ; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle 
was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried into cap- 
tivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to 
leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the 
enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, " being thus gradu- 
ally carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented 
thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense and 
experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family 
relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before 
his own life should be taken away." 

To fdl up the measure of his misfortunes, his own follow- 
ers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they 
might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a 



87 4: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, 
an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confed- 
erate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
AVetamoe was among them at the time, and atten"iptcd to 
make her escape by crossing a neigliboring river : either ex- 
hausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hunger, she 
was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecu- 
tion ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the 
wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, 
was no protection to this outcast fomale, whose great crime 
was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her 
corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; 
the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and 
Avas thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her captive sub- 
jects. They immediately recognized the features of their un- 
fortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spec- 
tacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most hor- 
rid and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery 
of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to 
despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, 
nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope 
was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he 
looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; there was 
no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. 
With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to 
his desperate fortunes, the Unhappy Philip wandered back to 
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fa- 
thers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 375 

oi (brmcr power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family 
ar^J friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and 
piteous situation, than tliat furnished by the homely pen of 
the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the 
reacfer in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. 
" Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been 
hunttd by the English forces through the woods, above a hun- 
dred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his 
own (!en upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of 
his bi^st friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to 
keep bim fast till the messengers of death came by divine per- 
mission to execute vengeance upon him." 

Ev(-a in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sul- 
len grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to 
ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in 
silence o\er his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sub- 
limity fr(-ni the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. 
Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not 
humiliatec'l — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath dis- 
aster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the 
last dregs of bitterness. Little minds arc tamed and subdued 
by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very 
idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote 
to death oiic of his followers, who proposed an expedient of 
peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in re- 
venge betrayed the retreat of his (hieftain. A body of white 
men and Indians Avero immediately despatched to the swamp 
where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. 
Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to 
surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest 



376 TIIK SKETCH-BOOK. 

followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vaiti ; he 
rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to 
escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian 
of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored 
when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced an- 
ecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them 
traces of amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken 
sympathy for his fate, and respect f )r his memory. We 
find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions 
of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of con- 
nubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sen- 
timent of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and 
only son " are mentioned with exultation as causing him 
poignant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly 
recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery 
and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections 
he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to 
have bereaved him of all further comfort. lie Avas a patriot 
attached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and 
indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in 
adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of 
bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had 
espoused. Proud of lieart, and with an untamable love of 
natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of 
the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps 
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submis- 
sion, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury 
of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievo- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKJET. 37^ 

merits that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have 
rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian ; ho 
lived a Avanderer and a fugitive in his native laud, and went 
down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tern- 
pest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly 
hand to record his struggle. 




John bull 



^.n '/id S""^?, ::'ia(le by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at bis gate. 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know liim by his looks, 
"With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 



rpilERE is no species of hcTnor in whieli the English more 
-*- excel, than that Avhich consists in caricaturing and giving 
ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this ^vay they have 
whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; 
and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared 
even themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, 
a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and 
imposing; but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor of the 
English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, 
that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure 
of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, 
red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus 
they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most 



JOHN BULL. 379 

private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so 
successful in their delineations, that tlierc is scarcely a being 
in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind 
than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and 
thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in 
a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire 
peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The com- 
mon orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the 
beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor 
to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this 
I have especially noticed among those truly homebred and 
genuine sons of the soil who liave never migrated beyond the 
sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth 
in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses 
that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If 
he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion 
about trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old 
blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears 
no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- 
bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance 
— he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and 
nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, 
and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the 
plea of munificence — for John is always more generous than 
vvise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 



380 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

argue every fault into a merit, and "svill frankly convict hirti 
self of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited 
in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, 
or rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a 
stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather 
much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of 
John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. 
Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are 
continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting differ- 
ent aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he 
has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a 
slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast 
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more than 
in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather than 
morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear or surprised 
into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, ar^d has no turn 
for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow 
him to have his humor, and to talk about himseif ; and he will 
stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however 
soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he ht.s a propensity 
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, 
who thinks not merely for himself and family^ but for all the 
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services 
to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 



JOHN BULL. 381 

if they engage in any matter of consequence without aslving 
his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of 
the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all 
parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He 
unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of 
defence, and having accomplished himself in the use of his 
limbs and his weapons, and becom.e a perfect master at box- 
ing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant 
of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with 
the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or 
honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. 
Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and policy so 
completely over the whole country, that no event can take 
place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and 
dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these fdaments 
stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, 
bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole 
chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, Avithout 
startling his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully 
from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of 
contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he 
only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into 
a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when 
victorious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to 
carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he 
comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the 
mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist 



382 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pocket all that they have been quarrelling about. It is not, 
therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of 
a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and you may bar- 
gain liim out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a 
stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, 
but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

lie is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of 
pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at 
boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a high 
head among " gentlemen of the fancy : " but immediately after 
one of these fits of extravagance, he will be taken with violent 
qualms of economy ; stop short at the most triviid expenditure; 
talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; 
and, in such moods, will not jiay the smallest tradesman's bill, 
without violent altercation. He is in fact the most punctual 
and discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin 
out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to 
the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a 
growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of 
a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beet 
steak and pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, 
broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the 
next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not 
so much from any great outward parade, as from the great 
consumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of 



JOHN BULL. 883 

followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to 
pay hugely for small services. lie is a most kind and indul- 
gent master, and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, 
flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate 
grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to per- 
fection. Every thing that lives on him seems to thrive and 
^row flit. His house-servants are "vvell paid, and pampered, 
and have little to do. Ilis horses are sleek and lazy, and 
prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs 
sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house- 
breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten ap- 
pearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast 
accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The 
centre bears evident traces of Saxon achitecture, and is as solid 
as ponderous stone and old English oak can malce it. Like 
all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intri- 
cate mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been 
partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places 
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been 

made to the original edifice from time to time, and great alter- 
am 
ations have taken place ; towers and battlements have been 

erected during wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; 
and out-houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the 
whim or convenience of different generations, until it has 
become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imagin- 
able. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a 
reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, 
and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at 



384: THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its 
walls within are storied with the monuments of John's ances- 
tors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined 
chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church ser- 
vices, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but 
he is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the 
circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected 
in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he 
has had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Chris- 
tian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, 
winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children 
•when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants 
to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay 
their rents punctually, and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, 
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy 
gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, ex- 
tensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of 
the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern 
festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, 
however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and 
time-worn ; and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay; 
so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling about 
the ears of the household. 



JOHN BULL. 385 

Johi.i has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He 
swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and 
weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has 
stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely 
to tumble dowai now — that as to its being inconvenient, his 
fimily is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be 
comfortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and 
irregular construction, these result from its being the growth 
of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every 
generation — that an old family, like his, requires a large house 
to dwell in ; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages 
and snug boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an 
old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 
building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the 
strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the 
whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each other, 
that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having the 
whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposi- 
tion to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to 
the dignity of an ancient and honorable fomily, to be bounteous 
in its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, 
partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes 
it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his super- 
annuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
establishments, his manor is encumbered bj old retainers 
17 



386 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot 
lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, 
and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its 
inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in housinsr 
some useless personage. Groups of A^eteran beef-eaters, gouty 
pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, 
are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing 
under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its 
doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these 
supernumeraries and their families ; for they are amazingly 
prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave John a legacy 
of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be 
struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower, but 
out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of 
some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense 
all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their pull- 
ing down the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant 
of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
never can withstand ; so that a man, Avho has faithfully eaten 
his beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with 
a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze un- 
disturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy ex- 
ample of grateful recollection, which if some of his neighbors 
were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it 
is one of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to 
his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past 
services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the perilous 
adventures and hardy exploits through which they have car- 
'•ied him. 



JOHN BULL. 387 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for flimily 
usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gipsies ; yet he will not suffer 
them to be driven off, because they have infested the place 
time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every gen- 
eration of the family. lie will scarcely permit a dry branch 
to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, 
lest it should molest the roolvs, that have bred there for cen- 
turies. Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they 
are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows 
have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; mar- 
tins buikl in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter about the 
towers, and perch on every weather-cock ; and old gray- 
headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, ruu- 
ning in and out of their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. 
In short, John has such a reverence for every thing that has 
been long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses 
being reformed, because they are good old flimily abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on 
punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his 
credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great per- 
plexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been in- 
creased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are con- 
tinually taking place in his family. His children have been 
brought up to diffei-ent callings, and are of diflerent ways of 
thinking ; and as they have always been allowed to speak 
their minds freely, they do not fixil to exercise the privilege 
most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some 
stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old 



388 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever may 
be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and considerate, 
entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put 
his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate foot- 
ing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to 
their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been com- 
pletely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his 
sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low hab- 
its, who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — is the 
orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poor- 
est of his iiithcr's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of liis 
brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an 
overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing can stop 
it. lie rants about the room ; hectors the old man about his 
spendthrift practices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; in- 
sists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors ; give the 
broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain 
packing, and take a field -prcaclur in his place — nay, that the 
whole family mansion shall be levelled Avith the ground, and a 
plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. lie rails at 
every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives 
up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the emp- 
tiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket- 
money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores 
for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's ex- 
travagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has be- 



JOHN BULL. 389 

como so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere 
mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl be- 
tween him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy 
and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all 
fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy war- 
fare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call in 
the aid of his son Tom, an ofiicer who has served abroad, but 
is at present living at home, on half-pay. This last is sure to 
stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong ; lilces nothing so 
much as a racketing, roystering life ; and is ready at a wink 
or nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if 
he dares to array himself against paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and 
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People 
begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs 
are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad 
with liim as represented ; but when a man's own children be- 
gin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. 
They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is 
continually dabbling with money lenders. lie is certainly 
an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too 
fast ; indeed, they never knew any good come of this fond- 
ness for hunting, racing, revelling and prize-fighting. In short, 
Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in the family 
a long time ; but, for all that, they have known many finer 
estates come to the hammer." 

What is Avorst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and 
smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late be- 



690 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

come as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His 
scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, -which bellied out so bravely in 
those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now 
hangs loosely about hiiu like a mainsail in a calm. His 
leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently 
have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides 
of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cor- 
nered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it 
down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground; 
looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave 
of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes about whistling 
thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his cud- 
gel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom 
of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for 
all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. 
If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he 
takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and 
stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out large sums 
to adorn his house or buy another estate ; and with a valiant 
swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have 
another bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation Avithout 
strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and ob- 
stinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may 
not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he 
is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His 
virtues are all his own ; all plain, homebred, and unaflTected. 



JOHN BULL. 391 

His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. 
His extravagance savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsome- 
ness of his courage ; his credulity of his open faith ; his van- 
ity of his pride ; and liis Lluntncss of his sincerity. They are 
all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. lie is like 
his own oak, rough -without, but sound and solid within; 
whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to the 
growth and grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches 
make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, 
from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is some- 
thing, too, in the appearance of his old fiimily mansion that 
is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can 
be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble 
to sec it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes 
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good archi- 
tects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere 
levellers, Avho, when they had once got to work with their 
mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until 
they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried them- 
selves among the ruins. All that, I wish is, tliat John's pres- 
ent troubles niay teach him more prudence in future. That 
he may cease to distress his mind about other people's affairs ; 
that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good 
of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the world, 
by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home ; 
gradually get liis house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate 
according to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks 
proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can ; re- 
new the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, 
on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth 1 but. like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishins. 

IIeurice. 

TN the course of an excursion tlirough one of the remote 
-*- counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the coun- 
try, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of 
which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air 
of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found, 
in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I deter- 
mined to pass the night there, and, having taken an early 
dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with ti*avellers, soon led 
me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here 
and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fan- 
tastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant cover- 
ing. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day 
had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 893 

cleared up ; and though sullen clouds still hung overhead, 
yet there was a broad, tract of golden sky in the west, from 
Avhieh the setting sun gleamed through the drippino- leaves, 
and lit up all nature with a melancholy smile. It seemed 
like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins 
and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory, 

I had seated myself on a lialf-sunkcn tombstone, and wag 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of mel- 
ancholy flxncying, which lias in it something sweeter even 
than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell 
from the neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in 
unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with 
my feelings ; and it was some time before I recollected that 
it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the 
place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young 
girls, dressed in white ; and another, about the age of seven- 
teen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers ; a 
token that the deceased Avas a young and unmarried female. 
The corpse was followed by the j^arents. They were a vener- 
able couple of the better order of peasantry. The father 
seemed to repress his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted 
brow, and deeply-furrowed face, showed the struggle tliat was 
passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 
17* 



394 TUK SKp-rCH-BOOK. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, 
with a pair of^hite gloves, were hung over the seat which 
the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed 
over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the 
bloom of existence — what can be more affecting ? At that 
simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to the 
grave — " Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust ! " — 
the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed 
unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his 
feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that the 
dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother only 
thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and 
withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she was like Rachel, 
" mourning over her children, and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the 
•deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Pier 
father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up en- 
tirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
flock. The good man Avatched over her education with pater- 
nal care ; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in Mhich 
she was to move ; for he only sought to make her an orna- 
ment to her station in life, not to raise her above it. The 
tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption 



TIUO riMDK OF THE VILLAGE. 395 

from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace 
and delicacy of character, that accorded with the fragile love- 
liness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant of 
the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of 
the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed 
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her 
manners. It might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which 
still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its 
rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some 
faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, in- 
ieed, had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a 
lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that 
think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and 
good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole 
stood from year to year in the centre of the village green ; 
on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers ; 
and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former 
times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and 
rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the 
flmcifulness of its rustic fetes, Avould often attract the notice 
of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a 
young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in 
the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste 



39G 'IHK SKETCH-BOOK, 

that pervaded this village pageant ; but, above all, with the 
dawning loveliness of the queen of JNIay. It was the village 
favorite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and 
smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and 
delight. The artlessness of rnral habits enabled him readily 
to make her acquaintance ; he gradually Avon his way into her 
intimacy ; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way 
in which young officers arc too apt to trifle with rustic sim- 
plicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
lie never even talked of love: but there are modes of making 
it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every 
word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence of 
love, and can always be felt and understood, but never de- 
scribed. Can we wonder that they should readily win a 
heart, young, guileless, and susceptible 1 As to her, she loved 
almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the 
growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
or what Avere to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not 
to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied 
her Avhole attention ; when absent, she thought but of what 
had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with 
him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the 
language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her 
ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the 
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 



TIIK PKIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 397 

of hor youthful admii-er, and the splendor of his military at 
tire, iiiioht at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these 
that had captivated her heart. Ilcr attachment had some- 
thing in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being 
of A superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of 
a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sor- 
did distinctions of rank and fortune she tliouijht nothing • it 
was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from 
those of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, 
that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him 
with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her 
cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured 
a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, 
and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
unworthiness". 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. lie had begun the 
connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother offi- 
cers boast of their village conquests, and thought some tri- 
umph of the kind necessary to his Veputation as a man of 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. Ilis heart 
had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a 
wandering and a dissipated life : it caught fire from the very 
flame it sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of the 
nature of his situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. Ilis rank 
in life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence 

upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbad him to think 

17* 



898 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent 
being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 
ners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in 
her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain 
did he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous senti- 
ment with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard 
them talk of female virtue : whenever he came into her pres- 
ence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious but impas- 
sive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no 
guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- 
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irreso- 
lution ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day 
for marching was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence 
in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the 
guileless simplicity of a child. lie drew her to his bosom, 
and kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet 
with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and 
tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affection. He was 
naturally impetuous ; and the sight of beauty, apparently 
yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over lier, and 
the dread of losing her for ever, all conspired to overwhelm 
his better feelings — he ventured to propose that she should 
leave her home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 



THE TKIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 309 

at liis own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intend- 
ed victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
meaning- ; and why she should leave her native village, and 
the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of 
his proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was with- 
ering. She did not weep — she did not break forth into re- 
proach — she said not a word — but she shrunk back aghast as 
from a viper ; gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his 
very soul ; and, clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for 
refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict 
of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the 
bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his 
tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his 
thoughts would sometimees steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath 
along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the 
little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings 
and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and Avere 
succeeded by a settled and jiining melancholy. She had be- 
held from her window the march of the departing troops. 
She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, 
amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of 



400 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

arms. She strained a last ach. Dg gaze after him, as the morn- 
ing sun glittered about his figure, and his plume waved in the 
breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, 
and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the 
barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she 
would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the 
village church ; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, 
would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty 
in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions 
at church ; and as tlie old people saw her approach, so wasted 
away, yet with a hectic gloom, and that hallowed air which 
melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for 
her, as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would 
shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord 
that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed 
to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle 
bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was 
extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions ; and in 
a moment of saddened tenderness, she penned hina a farewell 
letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touching 
from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, 
and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. 
She even depicted the sufTerings which slie had experienced ; 



THE PEIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 401 

but concluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, 
until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit 
all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no 
complaint, nor iinparted to any one *he malady that was prey- 
ing on her heart. She never oven mentioned her lover's 
name ; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and 
weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, 
over this fliding blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- 
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the 
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday af- 
ternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 
thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the 
fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands 
had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity 
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village 
church ; the bell had tolled for the evening service ; the last 
villager was lagging into the porch ; and every thing had sunk 
into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her 
parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness 
and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given 
to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her 
soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover 1 — -ov 



.402 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

were her thoughts wandering to that distant church-yard, into 
whose bosom she might soon be gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — the 
poor girl gave*a flxint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : 
it was her repentant lover ! lie rushed into the house, and 
flew to clasp her to hi» bosom ; but her wasted form — her 
deathlike countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desola- 
tion, — smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony 
at her feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted to ex- 
tend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but 
no word was articulated — she looked down upon him with a 
smile of unutterable tenderness, — and closed her eyes for 
ever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little nov- 
elty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange 
incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite 
and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time ; 
and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony which 
I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind 
than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have 
passed through the place since, and visited the church again, 
from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry 
evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the church- 
yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been 
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers 
were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 



THE PKIDK OF THE VILLAGE. 403 

the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 
funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed 
to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 
I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its 
powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have 
met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than 
this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER. 

This tlay dame Nature scemM in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice diil stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Kose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with pctient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

SlU II. "WOTTON. 

TT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
-*- away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring 
life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I sus- 
pect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen 
who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with 
angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to 
the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect 
studying his " Complete Angler " several years since, in 
company with a knot of friends in America, and moreover 
that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania. 
It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was aus- 
picious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge of 
summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as 
stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of 
chivalry. 



THE ANCILER. 405 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of 
his equipments : being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. 
lie Avore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with lialf a 
hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; 
a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing 
net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found in 
the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he 
was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the 
country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the 
steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the 
Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of 
a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down 
rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees 
threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds 
hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with 
diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along 
a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with mur- 
murs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth into 
open day with tlie most placid demure face imaginable ; as I 
have seen some pestilent shrew of a liousewife, after filling 
her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of 
doors, swimming and courtesy ing, and smiling upon all the 
world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at suvli 



406 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among the 
mountains : where the quiet was only interrupted by the oc- 
casional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the 
clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the neighbor- 
ing forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled 
above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied the 
sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Wal- 
ton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man 
must be born to it. 1 hooked myself instead of the fish ; 
tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; 
until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day 
under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had 
bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My compan- 
ions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. I 
have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the 
border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was 
merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising 
with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded 
haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously from his 
dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge 
of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off 
the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the 
panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and 
spreading an alarm throughout the Avatery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creep' 
ing about for the greater part of a day, Avith scarcely any suc- 
cess, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly coun- 



TIIK ANGLEK. 40T 

try urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a 
branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall 
help me ! I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a 
"\ile earthworm — and in half an hour caught more fish than 
we had nibbles throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by 
a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a 
hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read old 
Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, wdiile I lay on the 
grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, initil I fell 
asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot 
refrain from uttering these recollections, which are passing 
like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called up 
by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and 
throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a 
group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to 
consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The 
former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes 
very much but very carefully patched, betolccning poverty, 
honestly come by, and decently maintained. 11 is lace bore 
the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its fur- 
rows had been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray 
locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good- 
humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed 
to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a 
ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, 
and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish- 



4^08 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and 
apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was 
busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just 
killed, to discover by its contents what insects were season- 
able for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his com- 
panions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I 
have a kind feeling towards all " brothers of the angle," ever 
since I read Izaak Walton. They are men he affirms, of a 
" mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem for them 
has been increased since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing 
with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims 
of their inoffensive fraternity. " Take good hede," sayeth 
this honest little tretyse, " that in going about your disportes 
ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also 
ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetous- 
ness to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, but 
principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of your 
body and specyally of your soule."* 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a 
cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards 
him. I could not but remark the crallant manner in which he 



* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more in- 
dustrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. — "For 
when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyro 
greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. 
And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your cus- 
tomable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde 
many vices, as ydelncs, which is principal! cause to induce man to many 
other vices, as it is right well known." 



THE ANGLKR. 409 

stumped from one part of the brook to another ; Weaving his 
rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, 
or catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with wliieh 
he would throw his {ly to any particuhxr phice ; sometimes 
akimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes easting it 
into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or over- 
hanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In 
the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; 
showing them the manner in whiclfthey should handle their 
rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the 
stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the 
sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that 
pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a 
part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale 
of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to 
swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, 
like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with 
now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole 
earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was 
so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instruc- 
tions in liis art, I kept company with him almost the whole 
day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening 
to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy 
garrulity of cheerful old age; and I fancy was a little flattered 
by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for 
who does not like now and then to play the sage 1 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the 
18 



410 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experience^ 
many ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where 
his leg was carried away by a cannon ball, at the battle of 
Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real good fortune 
he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, to- 
gether with some small paternal property, brought him in a 
revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his 
native village, where he lived quietly and independently ; and 
devoted the remainder ortiis life to the "nobleart of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kind- 
ness, appearing to look only, on the good side of things : and, 
above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with 
who had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had 
honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fiiult to his own 
door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was receiv- 
ing his instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir apparent 
of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of course a 
youth of some expectation, and much courted by the idle 
gentlemanlike personages of the place. In taking him under 
his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a 
privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of 
cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, 
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted 



THE AJiGLEE. 41 1 

on Avorms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of 
spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the English arc me- 
thodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific cf 
sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule 
and system. Indeed it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to 
the mild and highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every 
roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, 
like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful coun- 
try ; leading one through a diversity of small home scenery ; 
sometimes winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes 
brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green 
is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing 
in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
nature, and the quiet Avatchfulness of the sport, gradually 
bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now and then 
agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle 
of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping 
out of the still water, and skimming transiently about its glassy 
surface. " When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, 
" and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and provi- 
dence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some 
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no 
care, and those A-ery many other little living creatures that 
are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the 
goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same 
innocent and happy spirit : 



412 THE SKETCII-EOOK. 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. 

Among the daisies and the violets blue. 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting -with the old angler I inquired after his place 
of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the vil- 
lage a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him 
out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing only 
one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrange- 
ment. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a 
little back from the road, with a small garden in front, stocked 
with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few flowers. The 
whole front of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. 
On the top was a ship for a weather-cock. The interior was 
fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and 
convenience having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man- 
of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the 
daytime, was lashed up so as to take but little room. From . 
the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own 

* J. Davors. 



THE ANGLEK. 413 

workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea- 
chest, formed the principal movahles. About the wall Avere 
stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All 
in the Downs, and Toni Bowline, intermingled with pictures 
of sca-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a 
distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with 
sea-shells ; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood- 
cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His imple- 
ments for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks 
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, con- 
taining a Avork on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with 
canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, 
and a book of songs, 

ITis family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and 
a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, 
in the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a 
variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a 
veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that 
of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, 
every thing being "stowed away " with the regularity of a 
ship of war ; and he informed me that he " scoured the deck 
every morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring 
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the centre of 
his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a history 
of his sport with as much minuteness as a general would talk 
over a campaign ; being particularly animated in relating the 
manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had com- 



414 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

pletely tasked all his skill and wariness, and whieh he had 
sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to sec a cheerful and contented old 
age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tem- 
pest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet 
harbor in the evening of his days ! His happiness, however, 
sprung from within himself, and was independent of external 
circumstances ; for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, 
which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself 
like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the 
mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a 
universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; 
where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, 
astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and ship- 
wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen 
sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had taught several of them 
the art of angling ; and was a privileged visitor to their kitch- 
ens. The Avhole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, 
being principally passed about the neighboring streams, when 
the weather and season were fiivorable ; and at other times he 
employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for 
the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for 
his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He hjid made it 
his particular request that when he died he should be buried 
in a green spot, which he could sec from his seat in church, 
and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and 
had thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in 



Tin-: ANGLKR. 415 

danger of being food for tho fishes — it was the spot where his 
father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
" brother of the angle ; " who has made me more than ever i;i 
love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in 
he practice of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sicetch 
,n the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing 
of St. Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in Iiis providence j and 
be quiet j and go a angling." 




THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



FOUND AMONG THE PAPEES OF THE LATE DIEDEICn KNICKER. 
BOCKER. 



A pleasing land of drowsy head it ■was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Isdolenck. 

TN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
-^ the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion 
of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, 
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, 
there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is 
called Greensburgh, but Avhich is more generally and proper- 
ly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, 
we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the 
adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their 
husbands to linger about the A'illage tavern on market days. 
Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not 
far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little 
valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is ono 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 417 

of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook 
glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to 
repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of 
a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in 
upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- 
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades 
one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, 
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, 
and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If 
ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from 
the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the 
remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising 
than this little valley. 

Froni the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the 
original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been 
known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are 
called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring 
country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang ovei 
the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that 
the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, daring the 
early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, 
the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held hi^ powwows there 
before the country M^as discovered by Master Hendrick Hud- 
son. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of 
some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the 
good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. 
They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs ; are subject 
18* 



418 THE skj<:tcii-book. 

to trances and visions ; and frequently see strange sights, and 
hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood 
abounds with local talcs, haunted spots, and twilight supersti- 
tions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley 
than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with 
her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 
of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without 
a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, 
Avhose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some 
nameless battle during the revolutionary war; and who is 
ever and anon seen by the counti-y folk, hurrying along in the 
gloom of night, as if on tlie wings of the wind. His haunts 
are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the 
adjacent roads, a:id especially to the vicinity of a church at 
no groat distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic his- 
torians of those parts, Avho have been careful in collecting and 
collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that 
the body of the trooper, having been buried in the church-yard, 
the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of 
his head ; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes 
passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his 
being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the coun- 
try firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 419 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there 
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, 
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it 
is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New- York, that population, 
manners, and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent 
of migration and improvement, which is making such inces- 
sant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by 
them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
water which border a rapid stream ; where we may see the 
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving 
in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing 
current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the 
drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I 
should not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period 
of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for tly 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. lie was 
a native of Connecticut ; a State which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as ""veil as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frcntier woodsmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his 



420 TIIK SKETCH-BOOK. 

person. lie was tall, but exceedingly lank, Avith narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out 
of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his 
Avhole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, 
and flat at top, with huge ears, large green gLassy eyes, and a 
long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched 
upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To 
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, 
with his clothes bagging and fluttering about hiin, one inight 
have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon 
the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most 
ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the 
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shut- 
ters ; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he 
would find some embarrassment in getting out ; an idea 
most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Ilouten, 
from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a 
rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a 
woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable 
birch tree growing at one end of it. From lience the low 
murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, 
might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of 
a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by the authori tative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, 
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged 
some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 421 

mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child.'" 
— Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart 
of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice 
with discrimination rather than severity ; taking the burthen 
off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. 
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of 
the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of 
justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some 
little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who 
sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called " doing liis duty by their parents ;" 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that 
" he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest day 
he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones liome, who happened 
to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted 
for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to 
keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising 
from his scliool was small, and would have been scarcely 
sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge 
feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- 
conda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the 
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With 

these he lived successively a week at a time ,- thus going the 
18* 



422 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of school- 
ing a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he 
had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agree- 
able. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter 
labors of their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the 
fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pas- 
ture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, 
all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he 
lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonder- 
fully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of 
the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the young- 
est ; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously 
the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and 
rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing, 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shil- 
lings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a 
matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his 
station in front of the church gallery, Avith a band of chosen 
singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away 
the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded 
far above all the rest of the congregation ; and there are pe- 
culiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may 
even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of 
the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, 
by divers little make-sliifts in that ingenious way which is 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 423 

commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," the worthy 
pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a 
wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
hi the fi.'male circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered 
a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior 
taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, 
indeed, inferit)r in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea- 
table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of 
a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
would figure among them in the churchyard, between services 
on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amuse- 
ment all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with 
a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill- 
pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung' sheep- 
ishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel 
ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from 
house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted 
with satisfliction. lie was, moreover, esteemed by the women 
as a man of great erudition, for lie had read several books quite 
through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's liistory 
of New England Witchcraft, i:i wliieh, by the way, he most 
firmly and potently believed. 

lie was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 



42i THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, border- 
ing the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering 
dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before 
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream 
and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to 
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, 
fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the whip-poor- 
will * from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that 
harbinger of storm ; tlie dreiiry hooting of the screech-owl, or 
the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in 
the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of 
uncommon briglitness would stream across his path ; and if, 
by chaitce, a luige blockhead of a beetle came Avinging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to 
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. Ilis only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat 
by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at 
hearing his nasal melody, '" in linked sweetness long drawn out," 
floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only hoard at night. It re- 
ceives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 425 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was^ to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat 
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and splut- 
tering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of 
ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, 
and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of 
the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as 
they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally 
by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and 
portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the 
earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully 
Avith speculations upon comets and shooting stars ; and with 
the alarming fixct that the world did absolutely turn round, and 
that they were half the time topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy 
glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no 
spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the 
terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful 
shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly 
glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye 
every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields 
from some distant window ! — How often was he appalled by 
some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, 
beset his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath 
his feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should 
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! — and 
how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush- 



426 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 
Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 
toms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had 
seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset 
by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet 
daylight put an end to all these evils ; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his 
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes 
more perplexity to mortal man than gnosts, goblins, and the 
whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Kat- 
rina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial 
Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; 
plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as 
one of her father's peaches, and universally Himed, not merely 
for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a 
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, 
which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most 
suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure 
yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought 
over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; 
and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the pret- 
tiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; 
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel 
soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had 
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel 
was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted 



THE LEGEND OF SLICEPY HOLLOW. 427 

farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his 
thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; Init within 
those every thing was snug, happy, and well-conditi<Mied. lie 
was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in 
wliich he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of 
tlie Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot of 
which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, 
in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled 
along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- 
house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; 
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with 
the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resounding within 
it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with 
one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were 
enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers 
were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens ; 
whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as 
if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were 
riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; 
regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the formyard, 
and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, 
with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door 
strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, 



428 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and croAV- 
ing in the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing 
up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his 
ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring 
mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running 
about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; 
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and 
tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming 
in their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, 
like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion 
sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side 
of bacon, and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld 
daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, per- 
adventure, a necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright 
chanticleer himself lay sprawling on liis back, in a side-dish, 
with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chival- 
rous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod foncied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the flit meadow-lands, the rich fields 
of Avheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the 
orchards burthcned with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the 
warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heail yearned after the 
damsel who Avas to inherit these domains, and his imagination 
expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into 
cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, 
and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy 
already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 



THE LEGEND CF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 429 

Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the 
top of aAvagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a 
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, 
Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart Avas 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high- 
ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
from the first Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves form- 
ing a piazzza along the front, capable of being closed up in 
bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighbor- 
ing river. Benches were built along the sides for summer 
use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at 
the other, showed the various uses to which this important 
porch might be devoted. Frona this piazza the M'ondering 
Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the man- 
sion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplen- 
dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In 
one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in 
another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears 
of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in 
gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red 
peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, 
shone like mirrors ; and irons, with their accompanying shovel 
and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; 
mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece ; 
strings of various colored birds' eggs were suspended above 
it : a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room. 



4:30 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed im- 
nnense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight, the peace of his mind Avas at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter 
of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a Icnight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such like easily-conquered adversaries, to contend 
with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron 
and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the 
lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily 
as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas 
pic ; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of 
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his Avay to the 
heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties 
and impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admi- 
rers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful 
and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the 
common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardi- 
hood, lie was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with 
short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant counte- 
nance, having a mingled a'r of fun and arrogance. From his 
Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 431 

the nickname of Brom Bones, by Avhich lie was universally 
known. lie was famed for great knowledge and skill in 
horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. 
lie was foremost at all races and cock-fights ; and, with the 
ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was 
the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and 
giving his decisions with an air and tone admitti'"--^ ■ ^lin- 
say or appeal. lie was always ready for either ^ fight or a 
frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; 
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong 
dash of waggish good ha'mor at bottoin. He h.iCi three or 
four boon cOihpanions, who regarded lnim as theii jnodcl, and 
the head of whom he scoure<l the cou.nry, attending every 
cne of feud or mcrrim<>»it for miles roiifKl. In cold weather 
• .vas distin-jish'"! by a fur cap, surmounted Avith a flaunting 
..v"s tail- *'><i when the folks at a country gathering descried 
lis well-known crest at a distance, whiskirr" about among a 
^quad of hard riders, they always stood ^^y for a squall. 
Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the 
farmhouses at midnigiit, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of 
Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
Would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered 
by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his 
g;mg ! " The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of 
awe, admiration, and good will ; and when any madcap prank, 
or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their 
heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his imcouth gallantries, and 
though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle 



432 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that 
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his 
advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt 
no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that 
when his horse was seen* tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sun- 
day night, a sure sign that his master Avas courting, or, as it is 
termed, " sparking," Avithin, all other suitors passed by in 
despair, and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than 
he would have shrunk from the cOKipetitior', and a v,iser man 
would have despairtcl. He had, however, a hapi;: nixture of 
pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he wn« ii. 
spirit like a supplo-iaok — yicldiiifj^ but touo-h 
bent, he never broke ; and though lio bowed 

slightest pressure, yet, the moment it A\'as arvay jerk ! he 

was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would havo 
been madness ; for he was not a mail to bo thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating 
manner. Under cover of liis character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had any 
thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of 
parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of 
lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul ; hs 
loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reason- 
able man and an excellent fiither, let her have her way in 
every thing. Ilis notable little wife, too, had enough to do to 
attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 433 

she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and 
must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied 
her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achieve- 
ments of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in 
each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinna- 
cle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his 
suit Avith the daughter by the side of the spring under the 
great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so 
favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to kno>v how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some scen\ to have but one vulnerable point, or 
door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and 
may be captured in a thousand different Avays. It is a great 
triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof 
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man 
must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He 
who Avins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to 
some renoAvn ; but he Avho keeps undisputed sAvay over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this Avas 
not the case Avith the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the 
moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
former evidently declined ; his horse Avas no longer seen tied 
at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually 
arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, Avho had a degree of rough cliivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried niatters to open Avarfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of 
19 



'484 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

those most concise and simple rcasoners, the knights-erraiit of 
yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of 
the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against 
him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would 
"double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his 
own school -house ; " and he was too wary to give him an 
opportunity. There was something extremely provoking 
in this obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative 
but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposi- 
tion, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. 
Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, 
and hia gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto 
peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school, by stopping 
up the chimney ; broke into the schf)ol-house at night, in spite 
of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and 
turned every thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster 
began to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 
ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took 
all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his 
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine 
in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without pro- 
ducing any material effect on the relative situation of the con- 
tending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in 
pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usu- 
ally watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In 
his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; 
the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a 
constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him 



TUE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 435 

might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited 
■weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as 
halt-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there 
liad been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his 
scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly 
■whispering behind them, ■with one eye kept upon the master; 
and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school- 
room. It Avas suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a 
negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned frag- 
ment of a hat, like the cap of ISIercury, and mounted on the 
back of a ragged, wild, half broken colt, which he managed 
with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
making or '•' quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Myn- 
heer Van Tassel's : and havino; delivered his message with that 
air of importance, and eflbrt at fine language, Avhich a negro is 
apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over 
the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full 
of the importance and hurry of his inission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- 
out stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart 
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, 
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside with- 
out being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose 
an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of 



436 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, iu joy uo 
their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed 
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That 
he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true 
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the 
name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued 
forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some 
account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. 
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was 
gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; 
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; 
one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but 
the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must 
have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the 
name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite 
steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a 
furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own 
spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young 
filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 
pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like 



THE LKGKND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 437 

a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of Ins arms 
•was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool 
hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of 
forehead might be called ; and the skirts of his Llack coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appear- 
ance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the 
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an appari- 
tion as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fme autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks begaii to make their appearance high in the air ; 
the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of 
beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighborintj stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
Irolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
from the very profusion and variety around them. There 
was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twittering 
blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged wood- 
pecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and 
splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings 
and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; 
and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat 
and white under -clothes; screaming and chattering, nodding 



438 THE SKETCU-BOOK. 

and bobbing and bo^ving, and pretending to be on good terms 
with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees ; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round 
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pics ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat 
fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld 
them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, 
Well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the 
delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel, 

Thus feeding his mind Avith many sweet thoughts and 
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the 
Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here 
and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated 
in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The hori- 
zon Avas of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid- 
heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY IIOLLOAV. 430 

precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky 
sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the 
mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still 
water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Ileer Van Tassel, which he found thronged Avith the pride 
and flower of the adjacent country. Old flirmers, a spare 
leathern-faced race, i'.i homespun coats and breeches, blue 
stocliings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their 
brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted 
shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, 
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside, Buxon^ lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw 
hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a Avhite frock, gave symptoms of 
city innovation. The sons, in short squai'e-skirted coats with 
rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their liair generally 
queued in the flishion of the times, especially if they could 
procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, through- 
out the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the 
hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a crea- 
ture, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one 
but himself could manage. lie was, in fact, noted for prefer- 
ring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept 
the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable 
»"^ll-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pauSe to dwell upon the world of charma 



440 THE SKETCn-BOOK. 

that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered 
the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the 
bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and 
Avhite ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country 
tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up 
platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, 
known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! There was 
the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp 
and crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger 
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And 
then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies ; 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delec- 
table dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and 
quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; 
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- 
piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated tliem, with the 
motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst 
— Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss 
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with 
my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a 
hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
In proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose 
spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn liis back 
upon the old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of 
Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY IIOLLOAV. 441 

any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call 
him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved al)Out among his guests with 
a face dilated \vith content and good humor, round and jolly 
as the harvest moon. Ilis hospitable attentions -were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shalce of the hand, a slap 
on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall 
to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old 
grayheaded negro, Avho had been the itinerant orchestra of the 
neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument 
M'as as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the 
time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every 
movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing 
almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a 
fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was 
idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, 
and clattering about tlie room, you would have thought Saint 
Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, w^as figuring 
before you in person. lie was the admiration of all the ne- 
groes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the 
farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of sinn- 
ing black foces at every door and window, gazing with delight 
at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grin- 
ning rows of ivory from ear to ear. IIow could the flogger 
of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady 
of his heart was his partner in the dance, and siniling grsv 
19* 



4i2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

eiously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom 
Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by 
himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sagcr folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smok- 
ing at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and 
drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was 
one of those highly -favored places which abound A\ith chron- 
icle and great men. The British and American line had run 
near it during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of 
marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds 
of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable 
each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming 
fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make 
himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doff'ue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an 
old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a myn- 
heer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White- 
plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket 
ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it 
whiz round the blade, and glance off" at the liilt : in proof of 
which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the 
hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded 
that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a 
happy termination. 



THE LEGKND OF SLEEPY IIOELOW. 4-13 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered long-settled retreats ; but are trampled 
under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of 
most of our country places. Besides, there is no encourage- 
ment for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely 
had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their 
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from 
the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at night to 
walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. 
This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts 
except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vi- 
cinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very 
air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an 
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Sev- 
eral of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. 
Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourn- 
ing cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree 
where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and Avhich 
stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 
the Avoman in ^hite, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Bock, and Avas often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of 
the stories, however, turned upoa the favorite spectre of 
Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard 
several times of late, patrolling the country ; and, it Avas said. 



44.4: THE SKETCn-liOOK. 

tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church- 
yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on 
a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of Avater, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may 
be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its 
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might 
rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide 
woody dell, along which ra^'cs a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of 
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a 
wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, 
were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom 
about it, even in the daytime ; but occasioned a fearful dark- 
ness at night. This Avas one of the favorite haunts of the 
headless horseman ; and the place where he was most fre- 
quently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a 
most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged 
to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge ; 
when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops 
with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel- 



TUE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 445 

lous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gallop- 
ing Hessian as an arrant jockey. lie affirmed that, ouretTirn- 
inij one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he 
had been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had 
offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have 
won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, 
but, just as they came to the church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, 
and vanished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. lie repaid them in 
kind with large extracts from his iuA'aluable author. Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken 
place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their flimilics in their wagons, and were 
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over 
the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 
behind their fiivoritc swains, and their light-hearted laughter, 
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent 
and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the 
custom of country lovers, to have a tctc-a-tcte with the heiress, 
fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for 
in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very 



446 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh 
these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been play- 
ing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her encouragement 
of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest 
of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to 
say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one Avho liad been 
sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without 
looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the 
stable, and with several hearty culls and kicks, roused his 
steed most nncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn 
and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, 
along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, 
and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hour was as dismal as himself Far below him, the Tappan 
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, Avith here 
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even 
hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of 
the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an 
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a code, acci- 
dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 
house away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound 
in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasion- 
ally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring mars/i, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 4-iT 

as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his 
bed. 

All th3 stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The 
night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper 
in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his 
sight. lie had never felt so lonely and dismal. lie "\\'as, 
moreover, approaching the very place where many of the 
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the 
road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant 
above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a 
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was con- 
-nected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who 
had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known 
by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people 
regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly 
out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and 
partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations 
told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle: he thought his whistle "\\ as answered — it was but a 
blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he 
approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, 
hanging in the midst of the tree — he praised and ceased whist- 
ling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it Mas a 
place where 1-he tree had been scathed by lightning, and the 
white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth 
chattered and his Icnees smote against the saddle : it was but 
the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they v/crc 



448 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



swayed about by the breeze. lie passed the tree in safety, 
but new perils lay before liim. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough 
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a 
group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape- 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the 
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those 
chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yoemen concealed who 
surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful arc the feelings of the schoolboy who has 
to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; he 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half 
a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse olcUaniinal made a lateral mo\ement, and ran broadside 
against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily 
with the contrary foot : it was all in -sain ; his steed started, it 
is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the 
road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The school- 
master now bestowed loth whip and heel upon the starveling 
ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sud- 
denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. 
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 449 

caught the sensitive car ol' Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the 
grove, on the margin of the brook, lie belield something huge, 
misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed 
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready 
to spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the r.ffrightcd pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was 
now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping 
ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the 
wings of the m ind 1 Summoning up, therefore, a sIioav of cour- 
age, he demanded in stammering accents — " Who are you 1 " 
He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still 
more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more 
he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shut- 
ting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm 
tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in 
motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in 
the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dis- 
mal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree 
be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large 
dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. 
lie made no ofiTer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof 
on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and wayward- 
ness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Broni Bones 
with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened 
his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a 



iSO THE 6KETCII-EOOK. 

walk, thinking to lag bennid — the other did the same. His 
heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his 
psalm tunc, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his 
mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something 
in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
ion, that Avas mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought 
the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, 
gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror- 
struck, on perceiving that lie was headless ! — but his horror 
was still moT-e increased, on observing that the head, which 
should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on 
the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to desperation ; he 
rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunj^owder, hoping, 
by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but 
the spectre started full jump Avith him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered 
in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns ofl" to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a 
demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and 
plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads 
through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter 
of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in gobKn story, 
and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 4'51'« 

half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave 
way, and he felt it slipping from under him. lie seized it by 
the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and 
had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round 
the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he hoard it 
trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the ter- 
ror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for 
it was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; 
the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that 
he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes 
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes 
jolted on tlie high ridge of his horse's back-bone, with a vio- 
lence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge Avas at hand. The wavering reflection 
of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. lie saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. lie recollected the j^lacc where Brom 
Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but 
reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then- 
he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him ; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon 
the bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he 
gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind 
to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash 
of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in 
his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. 
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. 
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was 



452 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his 
appearance at breakfost — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. 
The boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly 
about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans 
Van Ripper now began to feel some imeasiness about the fate 
of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. 
In one part of the road leading to the church was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply 
dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced 
to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of 
the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the 
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Ilans Van Ripper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly 
effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks 
fur the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old 
pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of 
psalm tunes, full of dogs' ears ; and a broken pitchpipe. As 
to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged 
to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of 
Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams 
and fortuno-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much 
scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 453 

copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These 
magic hooks and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to 
the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who from that time forward 
determined to send his children no more to school ; observing, 
that he never knew any good come of this same reading and 
■writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and 
he had received his quarter's pay but a day or tw^o before, he 
must have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips 
were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the 
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories 
of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were 
called to mind ; and when they had diligently considered them 
all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present 
case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that 
Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As 
he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his 
head any more about him. The school was removed to a 
different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned 
in his stead. 

It is true, an old former, who had been down to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account 
of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the 
intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had 
left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and 
TIans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been 
suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his 
quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept school and 



454: TUB SKETCH-BOOK. 

studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, 
turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, 
and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. 
Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at 
the mention of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story 
often told about the neighborhood round the Avinter evening 
fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of supersti- 
tious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been 
altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the 
border of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, 
soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the ploughboy, 
loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often 
fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm 
tunc among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 




POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWIUTING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

Thk preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which 
I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of 
Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most 
illustrious hurghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gen- 
tlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humor- 
ous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, — he 
made such eiForts to be entertaining. When his story was conclud- 
ed, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from 
two or three deputy aldermen, who liad been asleep the greater 
part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old 
gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and 
rather severe face throughout: now and then folding his arms, 
inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning 
a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
never laugh, but upon good grounds — when they have reason and 
the law on their side. "When the mirth of the rest of the com- 
pany had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on 
the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, demanded, 
with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and con- 
traction of the brow, what Avas the moral of the story, and what 
it went to prove ? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the 
glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended 
most logically to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
ple-asures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 



450 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" That, therefore, he that runs races -with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit liis brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
■with something of a triumphant leer. At length, ho observed, 
that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little 
on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which ho 
had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I don't 
believe one-half of it myself." 

D. K. 




L'EKYOY.^* 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let tliis be thy prayere, 
Dnto them all that thee will read or hear, 
• "Where thou art wrong, after their help to call. 

Thee to correct in any part or all. 

CnAUCEp/s Belle Dame sans Mercie. 

TN concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book, the Author 
-*-cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with 
which his first has Iseen received, and of the liberal disposition 
that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. 
Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he 
has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it 
is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two arti- 
cles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggre- 
gate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his 
work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what one 
has particularly censured^ another has as particularly praised ; 
and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, 
he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its 
deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 

* Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
20 



458 - THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally 
bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice 
is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should 
go astray. lie can only say, in his vindication, that he faith- 
fully determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second 
volume by the opinions passed upon his first ; but ho was 
soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. 
One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to 
shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable 
at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; 
Avliile a fourth cfeclared that he had a very pretty knack at 
turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a pensive 
mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to 
possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their 
counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. lie remained for a 
time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck 
him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being mis- 
cellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not be 
expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ; but 
that if it should contain something to suit each reader, his end 
would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to a 
varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One has 
an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or 
a devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate the 
ancient flavor of venison and wildfowl ; and a fourth, of truly 
masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus 



l'envoy 459 

each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst this 
variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the 
table without being tasted and relished by some one or other 
of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; 
simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there 
something to please him, to rest assured that it was written 
expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but entreating 
him, should he find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one 
of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for 
readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous 
faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how 
little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of author- 
ship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising 
from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a 
strange land, and appearing before a public which he has been 
accustomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings 
•of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve 
their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually 
embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and 
confidence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still 
the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go 
on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing ; 
and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised 
at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. 



APPENDIX. 



NOTES CONCEEXINO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

TowAKD the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the domin- 
ion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Greg- 
ory the Great, Gtruck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths 
exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among 
these comely but benighted islanders. lie was encouraged to this by 
learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo- 
Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter 
of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full 
exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of re- 
ligious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with 
forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the 
conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open 
air ; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and 
magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian 
as his wife ; the conversion of the kiiig of course produced the conver- 
sion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were re- 
warded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being endowed 
with authority over all the British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert of Sebert, king of 
the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of 
which MeUitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with Au- 
gustine was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river 
side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in 
fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great prep* 



402 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

arations •were made for the consecration of the church, which was to be 
dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, Mcllitus, 
the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the 
ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who 
informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. 
Tlie bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, 
that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter 
appeared to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church 
himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, 
■\vhich suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in 
sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds 
of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and or- 
dered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous 
draught of fishes ; one of which he was commanded to present to the 
bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the 
necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of 
the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wa.\ can- 
dles, crosses, holy water ; oil sprinkled ia various places, and various 
other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, 
they were completely removed on the fisherman's producing the identi- 
cal fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. 
To resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good 
bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been 
consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he reverently abstained from pro- 
ceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house whicli ho 
meant to endow. Ho pulled down the old church and built another in 
its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited m a magnificent 
shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruc- 
tion, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



EELICS OF EDWAED THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of 
the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred 



APPENDIX. 463 

edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward 
the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards 
of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden 
chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had 
officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among 
his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that 
the body of King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, 
which was indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his 
memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a 
nearer inspection, until the worthy narr.itor, to gratify his curiosity, 
mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of 
wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of 
iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on takiug down the scaffolding used in the 
coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole ap- 
pearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the workmen. 
No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of 
royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the 
knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the 
abbey in company with two friends, of congenial tastes, who were de- 
sirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted 
to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about 
six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. 
Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from un- 
derneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enameled, affixed to 
a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquis- 
itive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of the 
coffin, / drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and 
firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list 
of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the 
temples. There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-colored 
flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put 
thereto showed it was well nigh perished. Tliere were all his bones, and 
much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride 
than the scull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in 
Its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with bira 
through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain 
back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his 



464 ' IIIE SKETCH-BOOK. 

discovery. The doan not being accessible at the time, and fearing that 
the " lioly treasure" might be taken away by other liands, he got a 
brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three 
hours afterwards, and in liis presence again drew forth the relics. These 
he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subse- 
quently had the old coffin inclosed in a new one of great strength : " each 
plank being two inches thick and cramped together with large iron 
wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, 
that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description 
of it in modern tinges. " The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British 
writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces 
of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches the rays of the 
sun, forever set on its splendor * * * * Only two of the spiral 
pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and covered with 
dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only the 
lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the rich mar- 
ble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH. 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke ot Mewcastle, and his Duchess his second 
wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, young- 
est sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the 
brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a 
wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : 
ehe was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her 
lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he came 
home, never parted from him in his solitary retirement^.. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the after- 
noon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir 
partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral and the tran- 
septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of the 
choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats and canopies ; 
the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and 
screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there 
upon a sepulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notea 
of the organ accord well with the scene. 



APPENDIX. 465 

"When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white 
dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey 
and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim 
Bepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant 
view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong 
glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural 
monument of one of the Pultneys. 



THE END. 



20« 



k^- 



>^l*^\ 








'%' 







(IP 9 



\ 



^^]Uf 






